


Graveyard Poppy

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Drug Use, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Past Drug Use, Post Reichenbach, References to Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-27 08:29:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 60,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story in which John and Sherlock struggle to become what they've always been, Mycroft interferes, and an unforeseen obstacle climbs out of the rubble to threaten everything that they've all worked for. Eventual Johnlock, Post-Reichenbach, Mature rating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nothing New Under The Sun

 

 

 

 

 

  
**_CLASH_ ** **_._ **

"Well Christ." John murmured as he heaved the large box of old Medical books he was carrying on to the kitchen counter. Swiping his hands of the dust, he reached down to pick up the shards of glass that accompanied the plate he sent clattering to the floor.

Chucking the glass in the sink, he briefly glanced upwards to find Sherlock, t-shirt and night-gown and hysterical curls, staring at him in pointed irritation.

He sighed audibly.

"Really. Already?" He asked, stopping in the process of stacking the books on the counter. "It's not even 9:00."

"Yes, John --typically a time of day when your cacophanies are _least_ appreciated." He explained as he swiveled back to face his computer screen. "Tea, please."

"Right. Good." John commented as he turned back to the books. "Next time I'll just stop the laws of physics."

"Seems a bit of a stretch for you. You might try to conquer basic motor skills first." He quipped boredly, eyes flickering over the screen and fingers speeding over the keyboard.

The keyboard to John's computer.

 _John's_ computer.

Sherlock had been under the influence of one of his proverbial "black moods" for over a week now. His normal banter was well on it's way to transcending the realm of bland condescension into the world of biting insults and harsh vitriol. John had always tried to weather the storms until Greg called with a case, but Sherlock's cut-downs usually became dangerously personal by the beginning of the second week, and John was the only moving target left.

Aborting any kind of futile comeback, John opted to just watch him instead.

He spent a lot of time just watching him these days.

But really, it was only because he wasn't entirely sure that Sherlock was _actually_ there - present, breathing, thundering under a bad mood, not bleeding on a road, not hullucinatory, not in one of his dreamscapes, but actually _living_. Being alive and well in a way that he hadn't been until six months before. Sherlock would have noticed the staring and John knew he would have, but there were times when it was all John could do not to consider the man in stolen moments. If Sherlock noticed, (and he did) he never said anything.

John was grateful.

Turning to put the kettle on, he found himself being constantly surprised at the impossibility of the man sitting less than ten feet away from him. It still happened; the shock. He could walk into any room on any given day and feel his heart skip a beat at the sight of Sherlock, there, just being so neurotically Sherlock.

It had been three years since ' _The Fall_ ' -- three years since Sherlock had thrown himself off of the roof at Barts, and three years since John entirely forgot how to be alive.

"Anything new from Greg?" He asked as he filled the kettle.

"Mm. . .no." Came the moody reply. "Not anything a well-trained chimp couldn't handle, but I wouldn't put it above those drones he calls team members."

Six months ago, John had received a call from Mycroft at two in the morning to meet him in an undisclosed area. The relationship with Mycroft had waned after the funeral - a plethora of texts and calls over the first few months lessened to a handful of texts by the second year. Throughout the course of the third year, John received a total of six texts from Mycroft with all of the communication becoming less personal, and more general. 

He had never once responded.

The first time in two years that he had received a call from Mycroft, John found himself escorted in the night to an abandoned warehouse with no information, no coat, and a crippling excess of anger towards the man who essentially ensured Sherlock's death. He walked in demanding an explanation for the meeting while sub-consciously pleading with Mycroft to let him _go_ \- let him be free from _that_ life and _those_ memories. Mycroft, pale and tight-lipped, had only just told John to sit down when Sherlock, in all of his Gothic, alabaster glory, appeared out of the shadows with tired eyes of survival and a cigarette in his mouth. Shaking, John glanced at Mycroft who cursed quietly to himself for the first time since John had known the man.

" _Are you alright?_ " Sherlock had asked, and John ran rigid when a gloved hand grasped his shoulder and pushed him down into the chair. And they'd been here, they'd done this before --this same scenario with those same three words, only John had been wearing a vest of explosives next to a pool, not freezing in a warehouse with his faded friend appearing before him in what was quickly appearing to be the cruelest charade John would ever know.

And in all his life, John had never been so deliriously furious.

And overwhelmed.

And nauseated.

And _relieved._

"What are the books for?" Sherlock broke him from his reverie, extending the bow of his violin to point at the box of books in front of him. 

"Just old medical texts." He replied as he rifled through an old notebook of University notes and study guides. "I'm still bringing in the last of my things from Harry's --Jesus, this is dated November 1999." He remarked to himself as he held a yellowing piece of paper up to the light and squinted around the small text.

"Mm." Sherlock mumbled in disinterest as he steadied the bow on the bridge of the violin. "Oh, Lestrade did call this morning with some excuse for a double homicide, but I can already tell it's going to be a six."

"But you did take it?" John asked, distracted, as he flipped through a lengthy manual on the insertion of nasal cannulas. When Sherlock merely snorted in response, however, he glanced upwards from the manual and braced himself on the counter. "You _did_ take the case, Sherlock?"

"A six, John. It was a six." Sherlock explained, though visibly flinching as John slammed the kettle down onto the counter. 

"You've been complaining for a week about not having a case!" He gestured wildly. "You're _this_ close to commiting double homicide yourself!" 

"Bah!" Sherlock scoffed as he slammed the laptop shut. "It's primal, John. Just a typical lovers' spat that took a slight turn for the worst --the way they _all_ do. That's not a case, that's bad literature." He waived.

"Slight?" John asked incredulously through a wince, though Sherlock merely cast him an unimpressed flick of the eyes as he re-steadied the bow on the strings, and John bit his cheek and looked away.  "No, Sherlock. Okay? _No_. You declared war on the furniture four days ago, Mrs. Hudson has gone into hiding, and you've already burned through seven nicotine patches in two days. When it gets to that point, the 'sixes' automatically become 'tens."

"Tell me you're not trying to establish rules for the metric system I created."

"I'm _trying_ to keep your personal chaos from destroying us all." John clarified. "Call it self-preservation." He said with a waive, turning away from the petulant detective.

Sighing audibly, Sherlock finally abandoned the violin and swiped the tea-cup off the counter.

"Really, John. Must you be so willing to settle for less?" He spoke into the cup.

John stiffened as a pang of something hot and barbed shot through him.

"I don't know. That's what every one asked me when I befriended you."

He said it before he could will it away, and John had never had a desire to cross the boundaries of verbal warfare despite Sherlock's frequent visits to said territory. The slow stare Sherlock pinned him with over the rim of the tea-cup was telling of the glacial unexpectedness.

"Jesus. Forget that." John exhaled as Sherlock, still glaring at him, slid the cup carelessly across the table and reached behind to snatch the violin off of the couch. Finally glancing away, he began to compose an angry melody that was indicative of the foul mood he had been stewing under for well over a week.

"Right. And now he's gone." John commented to himself over the hysterical violin as he dumped the remainder of the tea into the sink. Catching sight of the rather nefarious shards of glass in the sink, he stopped to consider Sherlock's annoyance with it all.

Sherlock was damn-near impossible under these moods as a universal truth, but traditionally they had always been filled to the brim with loud violin concertos, gunshots and beakers to the wall, and the manhandling of furniture and all accompanying accessories in his wake. Volume was always accelerated during these times, so it really wasn't typical for him to be blatantly offended by the sound of glass breaking. John cringed as a particularly livid screech of strings pierced the silence.

"That's a new one." He called in annoyance over the screaming violin from the sink. "Can't say it's your most relaxing piece, but I applaud your creativity."

"There's nothing new under the sun, John." Sherlock drawled. "Except for human ignorance, of course, but that seems to regenerate itself every hour."

"Right, hah. So how many times have I heard it before?" He asked, exasperated.

"Three." Sherlock replied sharply as he slid the bow across the strings for one last angry note, and tossed the violin carelessly on the table. Silence filled the room as Sherlock fell gracelessly onto the couch and threw an arm over his face.

"Thank God." John murmured under his breath.

"Stop forming sound with your mouth, John." He groaned. " _Please_."

As John turned to grab the kettle, however, his hand paused mid-air when he remembered Sherlock's visible flinch earlier when he had slammed it on the table. He glanced up at the brooding detective, then back to the glass shards in the sink, then back to the cup on the counter.

And then it dawned on John possibly why _\-- why_ the theatrics had become so much more aggressive.

He considered the pale, heaving chest of his friend as he lie on the couch. Since Sherlock had returned, John had catalogued at least eight new visible scars on the areas of skin that Sherlock exposed to the light of day. Many were superficial, but there was a particularly evil scar that etched itself into the skin under his collar-bone -- it would have required twelve stitches at the very least. There were others, too - too many for John to grow comfortable with both knowing and not knowing of.

There were certain areas and certain things that they didn't speak of. John had his own repressed demons --the quaking presence of the PTSD, the psychosomatic limp and all of it's accompanying accessories, and the true extent of the staggering level of damage that Sherlock's "Fall" had eroded into him. And despite his unapologetic acceptance of his character and motivations, Sherlock had cracks in his foundation as well -- his history with drugs had managed to stay a mostly obsolete topic over the years, and the reasons behind his eternal feud with Mycroft were dead and buried along with any mention of the Holmes family and estate in general. There were certain areas and certain things, John thought, and Sherlock's livelihood during his three-year absence had quickly become one of the new things.

There was so much that John didn't know about the absence. Sherlock neither spoke of it, nor deigned to provide any information unless it was shallow, impactless, or spoken of in passing. Sherlock had explained the reasons why he had composed 'the Fall', but never expounded on _where_ or _what_ he did for the three years following. It was " _to deconstruct the remaining members of Moriarty's web_ ", Mycroft had so generously offered, and John made no hesitation in expressing to Sherlock how utterly _wrong_ it was for him to go that kind of danger alone.

He had said it in a thousand languages in a thousand different ways over the course of the last six months, and John held no pretense with Sherlock or himself that he would ever realistically be able to stop implying to Sherlock how devastating that decision was. 

He had pressured the subject once before in asking about the scar under his collar-bone, only to have Sherlock's mood derail _entirely_ for the remainder of the day. He had been told by Mycroft that Sherlock was somewhere in Russia before he had returned to London, and John found himself constantly uncomfortable at the prospect of Sherlock's health during those years and in those places. Mycroft never spoke a word of it, though John had never really tried to ask.

There were some types of anger that weren't worth letting go of.

 _"What the hell has happened to you?"_ John wondered idly as he observed the man in front of him.

When Sherlock returned, things had eventually fallen back into normalcy.

...except for how they didn't.

These days, Sherlock doesn't leave the flat as much as he used to, opting instead to utilize the homeless network for minor scraps of information that he normally would have made to get himself. Sherlock loved London - it was his fabled 'battlefield' and prime location for the gluttinous consumption of adrenaline and homicide. But when he needed something that would require leaving, he would waive it off as 'unimportant' or demand that Mrs. Hudson or John provide it for him. He found a greater contentment with 221B than John knew was appropriate for someone with Sherlock Holmes' level of wild, and although John was grateful for the lack of night-time escapes, it wasn't right. 

It wasn't Sherlock.

He slept far less than his normal-- which was truly saying something considering the 'ten-hours-a-week' he normally sustained. The dark circles under his eyes never receded, and John often found himself ready to spring into action for the day when Sherlock would pass out from the exhaustion alone. If Sherlock slept at all, then it was no surprise that he ate even less. There were a few close calls - a hand braced on the wall against a head rush if he stood too quickly, or an uncomfortable swaying on his feet in the middle of the longer cases. John constantly bought food that was never touched, and Sherlock's rib-riddled torso was a primary indication of this loss of self.

But the most staggering indication of Sherlock's decay revealed itself to John five months before. He had woken in the middle of the night, restless and cold and still raw from Sherlock's return, to make himself a cup of hot tea. While doing so, he had heard a few pained, clipped cries from Sherlock's bedroom. Grabbing his gun, he flew through the flat and barreled through the door to find Sherlock, alone, staring wide-eyed at him in sleepy confusion; chest heaving and hands shaking. And then John had _understood_ , had recognized the signs and symptoms. He knew it all too well himself--the panic. He had apologized, but Sherlock spent the rest of the night pacing through the flat and muttering under his breath. John never once mentioned the word "PTSD", and Sherlock didn't dare to sleep with him there anymore.

Did the shattered glass that morning trigger the memory of a bullet shattering a window in Russia? Sweden? Was the slamming of the kettle reminiscent of a gunshot in South America, or perhaps the haunted noise of some kind of explosives in Kuwait? America? Brazil? North Korea, Nicaragua or Spain or wherever the fuck Sherlock had risked his life for John? Sherlock was, for all intents and purposes, utterly terrified -- and John _hated_ him for it. 

 _"No. We're not-- this ends now."_   John thought as he quietly grabbed a metal pan off of the counter and stalked towards Sherlock.

"John, fetch me some of th-"

His sentence went unfinished, however, as John launched the pan violently against the wall above Sherlock's head. The sound cracked and ricocheted across the room, but before John could open his mouth to explain himself, he found himself staring face-to-face with the barrel of a gun; Sherlock's eyes radiating a furious blue beyond it.

"Sherlock." John spoke reassuringly, throat thick and heart racing erratically as Sherlock's chest heaved with a very real intent to kill. 

John watched as the angry, furrowed brow slipped from Sherlock's face to be instantly replaced by the confused and deeply-disconcerted expression of some one who had momentarily lost control of every thing. John knew the face well - the last he had seen it, he had appeared before Sherlock with a coat of Semtex strapped to his body.

"You're fine." John spoke calmly, hands held in front of him defensively as he gently grasped Sherlock's wrist and lightly pushed it down. "Drop the gun, yeah?" 

He closed his eyes in blooming relief as Sherlock half-turned and placed the gun steadily on the coffee table.

"Nothing new under the sun, then?" John asked on an exhale as his heart beat wildly in his chest. Sherlock's expression quickly morphed from one of nervous insecurity into one of sheer offense.

"Why the _hell_ would you do something like that?" He snapped, but John didn't falter. 

"Testing a theory." He replied breathlessly as he fell back against the wall. Sherlock visibly blanched at the answer.

"What kind of idiocy did you rely on to determine that that would be a wise thing to do?"

"I was right, though."

"Do you understand the magnitude of how ill-advised that was? I almost sh-" He aborted the sentence to bend low in front of John; all radiations of anger and re-assembling nerves. "If you value your life at all, John, I suggest you never deign to do something so utterly _moronic_ again." He seethed, voice low and warning.

"It wasn't a gunshot, Sherlock." John asserted.

 _"What?"_ He spat, features screwing together in confusion.

"The pan. It wasn't a gunshot." John reiterated, voice mellowing into a steady reassurance. "And the glass that fell off the counter--that wasn't either."

"I know it wasn't." Sherlock bit acidically, but John ignored.

"You aren't in a place any more where you need to fear for your life." He explained as Sherlock's eyes flicked rapidly across his face; searching. "But if the time comes when you are, I'll be there for that time. And the time after that, and the time after that, and there really is nothing you can do to stop me from this point on." John remarked factually, not bothering to spare Sherlock's feelings on the matter any more. Something raw flashed like quicksilver in Sherlock's eyes, but it was gone with the pulsing embers of the conversation.

With one last ambiguous look, Sherlock swept past him and resumed his assault on the violin.

"Right. Good." John commented to himself as he strode over to the counter and swiped his keys off of the table, all while smirking to himself with the little victory over Sherlock Holmes.

Pulling his coat on, he began to make his way down the stairs when the violin abruptly ceased.

"John." Sherlock called from the living room as his phone vibrated in his pocket.

"Yeah." He answered back, pulling out his phone to find a new message from Mycroft:

 

 

 

 

 

  
_"Car waiting. -- **MH** "  _He rolled his eyes and tucked it away as Sherlock appeared above him.

"You're going somewhere." He stated; though with less hostility, and a little more humility.

"Out with Mike, probably won't be back until later." John lied.

"Let me know when you're on your way home." Sherlock replied, not bothering to make any kind of eye contact as he listlessly tuned the violin pegs.

"Why? You needing something?"

"No. Just let me know." He commented on a half-turn, and John allowed himself a small smile. This was new as well, this desire to have a semblance of quiet control from all angles and viewpoints --to possess current knowledge of every one and every thing around himself, to be "in the know" of every facet of his life; and John could neither fault him for it nor forgive him. A mindset of constant omniscience, omnipresence, and omnipotence would have been absolutely critical to the success of destroying Moriarty's network, and six months later, Sherlock hadn't been able to abandon any of that mindset. Sometimes, John doubted he ever would. 

"Alright." John smiled, not failing to catch the small, upward twitch of Sherlock's mouth. "Don't kill anybody while I'm out. And call Greg back about that case."

A muffled violin whined inside as he shut the door, and made his way down the street.


	2. Delicate Matters

"Okay. Here I am." John announced as he held his arms open in the middle of an empty street. "I know you're here somewhere, so let's get this over with."

A catty clicking of heels appeared from behind, and John turned to find the beautiful-and-eternally-unimpressed Anthea approaching him with her face buried in her phone. She stopped several feet in front of him and busied herself with the phone, iterating in subtle ways how irrelevant John was in the world of all things Anthea.

"So who are we today?" He asked politely, her habitual disinterest be damned. "Antigone? An. . .dromeda?"

"Anthea." She replied, brown hair cradling her down-turned face. "Are you ready to go, Dr. Watson?" She pressed as her manicured nails clicked noisily over the keyboard.

"Not really." He commented. "But I can't imagine that it matters."

"Not even slightly." She said as she turned on her heels, hair whipping wildly behind her shoulder. "Follow me."

"Right." John whispered mostly to himself as he sprung forward to fall in stride behind her. They walked a fourth of a mile until the inky, ill-omened car of Mycroft's perpetual abuse appeared purring on the side of the road. Opening the back door as per usual, he paused upon finding Mycroft sitting leisurely in the backseat.

"John, how are you on this fine Saturday afternoon?" He asked as he browsed through his phone's inbox.

"I've been better."

"I'm sure you have." He flashed John a quick smile. "Please, do come in. We have some delicate matters to discuss."

"Is this about Sherlock?" John quipped, straining to bend down inside the car. When Mycroft merely sent him a derisive snort in response, John cursed under his breath, slid in and shut the door.

"Fancy a croissant, John?" He inquired as he vaguely gestured to a small box of gourmet pastries between them.

"I would fancy an explanation, actually."

"All in good time." He replied boredly as he scrolled through a lengthy text message on his phone. Finally clearing his throat, he tucked the phone back inside of his coat pocket and looked to the front seat. "Anthea, you have my permission to drive in circles for the next half hour at the least. You have free reign of direction, but do try to maintain a two-mile radius outside of 221b Baker Street. I don't need any graceless confrontations at this point in time."

Her response came as a flick of her eyes into the mirror, and John felt an unexpected pinch of dread bubble acridly as the window separating the front from the back rolled upwards, granting them a God-awful silence.

"How are you these days, John? I assume Sherlock is keeping you comfortably homicidal?"

"Mycroft, what's this about really?" John interrupted, irritation replacing the previous wariness. "I know this isn't a friendly outing between two blokes, so I'm assuming it's probably something serious."

"It really isn't outside the realm of possibility that I should inquire about the well-being of my brother's flatmate."

"No, it really is. You are a Holmes, and Holmes' don't 'do' inquiries. I would know."

"Then what does a Holmes 'do', John?"

"Text messages. If that." John replied sharply, and the slightly-amused smile on Mycroft's face somewhat thinned as his gaze settled to a spot on the floor.

"I need your help with something, John -- something that I imagine will affect both Sherlock and yourself in the very near future."

"Is it .. .dangerous?" John asked carefully as a wire of adrenaline shot up his spine and suspended his annoyance. This was why he hated the "chats" with Mycroft-- he could never be properly furious with the man due to the eternally terrifying and/or fatal subject matter.

At his question, Mycroft smirked and looked upwards to hold John's attention for an uncomfortable stretch of time.

"If we're not careful, it has the potential to be devastating." He replied with a foreboding silence underscoring the end of his sentence. Rubbing his hand once over his face, John crossed his arms and fell into a quiet consideration for a few moments.

"If it's anything to do with Sherlock, of course I'll -- you know I'll do whatever's needed." He stopped. "But before I agree to anything, I have a few questions that I need answers to."

"Oh?"

"I want to know about every thing that happened to Sherlock during those three years --what he did, where he was, and what injuries he sustained. All of it."

At this demand, Mycroft sat up straighter and leaned back into the door of the car with his fingers steepling in front of him-- a brief innuendo of Sherlock's persona. John felt himself growing impatient as Mycroft, in all of his elusive scheming, considered John with an inquiring scrutiny for a few heavy moments.

"Of course Sherlock will be furious about it." He gestured.

"Yes. Well." He clears his throat. "I don't actually care about what Sherlock wants at this point. This is for his own good."

"His? Or yours?" Mycroft questioned with a raised brow, and John huffed out a short, frustrated laugh.

"Both." He replied confidently, any residual awkwardness be damned to hell, because confessional types of honesty on his part would never be able to hold the same sting as they did after that horrific phone call at Bart's from the ground looking up. Honesty used to be distressing-- a catalyst for vulnerability and open-season for mocking; particularly from Sherlock, but generally from others as well. But at some point after Sherlock's death, it had seemed so fucking atrocious that he never said. . .whatever it is that he should have said. The line between life and death was too thin to hold the burden of words that didn't have to be left unsaid.

John did say many things, but only to the objects that wouldn't question-- the skull on the mantle, the celing on the harder nights, himself, mostly. There were plenty of confessions that were wasted on the gravestone with John leaving them for dead in the same way that Sherlock was.

Until he wasn't. And John didn't know how or what to say in the wake of a second chance that so, so many people crave, but never get to have.

At this, Mycroft straightened and reached inside his breast-pocket for the phone again. With his eyes flicking across the screen, he navigated through a considerable series of links and apps until he paused on one particular link. When his phone demanded a password for entry, John watched in morbid curiosity as a red light reflected off of the interior of the car. With a long series of clicks, Mycroft entered the password, and a flood of blue and green light replaced the red. Holding the phone to John, he took it and immediately recognized a satellite image of a map of the world with pulsing, red dots scattered across a few continents.

"The red flags mark every location that Sherlock visited during that time. " Mycroft explained as John's eyes cataloged the map. "I kept track of his whereabouts whenever I physically could manage, and these flags marked the specific locations where Jim Moriarty had contacts. I pulled all of the information that I could to send Sherlock these locations, but many are isolated areas that I wasn't aware of until Sherlock arrived there. I didn't succeed in figuring out how he was given those locations, but we both know Sherlock-- I imagine a fair amount of foul play went into it. "

"These are spread out over all continents except the polar ice caps. Are you seriously telling me that Sherlock traveled them all?" John asked, voice betraying the small tidal-wave of overwhelm at the prospect of Sherlock traversing every one of them alone and in such a short expanse of time.

Some countries were obvious in their attraction to Moriarty-- The United States, Russia, India. Moriarty's network would have been easy to identify in areas of high traffic, advanced technology, and countries with enough renown amongst the criminal underworld to utilize bribes and pay-offs for information. But other countries were abstract and significantly less-developed-- Nicaragua, Paraguay, Nigeria.

"I know you believe me to be dishonest due to my involvement in his suicide, but I can promise you that these are any and all locations that Sherlock visited; unless of course there are locations that he didn't inform me of, but that shouldn't surprise you in the slightest. If you want a copy of the map, I'll send it to you."

Zooming in on the smaller countries, John couldn't help feeling overwhelmed by the concept of Sherlock navigating that kind of 3rd-world decay on his own. London: wholesome, posh London with all of it's glittering fortune and comfortable civilization had provided enough life-threatening encounters for them on it's own. The third-world countries would have been rough and utterly fatal at best.

And then the anger, old and inflammatory as it ever was, found its way blooming up through John's throat again. Anger for being kept in the dark, anger at Sherlock for an insane plethora of reasons, anger at Mycroft for supervising the whole sick charade, anger for any and every one who knew about it, yet felt comfortable enough to watch him fall apart on a cellular level every day after the funeral. Just anger-- misplaced and shapeless and crude, and John found himself caught in it's net every day, not knowing what to do with it or how to express it in the paradox of being so devastatingly happy for the anger, because it meant that Sherlock was alive.

"I can tell you that I was able to supervise Sherlock's travels 70% of the time, but there are and will always be variances in my plans when it comes to Sherlock. You ought to know more than anyone."

John laughed, frustrated, as he handed the phone back to Mycroft and covered his mouth with his hand for a few long moments. He smiled, but in the most unhappy way possible.

"Ridiculous. Absolutely _ridiculous_. No wonder he's--"

"Not quite the same?" Mycroft interjected, and the smile crashed off of John's face like the crumbling side of a cliff into the ocean. When John's mouth thinned into a frustrated, white line, Mycroft inhaled and put the phone back inside his coat. "I don't pretend that you need to be shielded from the life he led, John, so I'll be honest in telling you that Sherlock faced a level of unpredictability, discomfort and fear of which he has never known before. He was, for all intents and purposes, miserable."

"The injuries." John cut in, feeling dangerously close to rearing his elbow into the window. Mycroft fell back and studied him with a greater degree of apprehension than was previously visible. "That bad, huh? Jesus Christ." He breathed as he pressed the heel of his hand to his eye.

"John." Mycroft began, eyes flicking downward, but John waived him off with a brush of his hand.

"No. It's fine. Just don't. . .lie to me, Mycroft. I can see the scars anyway, and I want to know." He said, though Mycroft continued to study the ground with the palm of his hand over his umbrella.

"During that time, Sherlock was hospitalized a total of four times with two of those visits being near-fatal. The first was for a broken leg and two cracked ribs in the United States after an altercation with one of Moriarty's employees. Sherlock did manage to shoot him, but not before the damage was sustained. Needless to say he was in a fair bit of pain, but he recovered soon enough. The second was for a serious case of Dengue fever that he contracted somewhere in South America. As I was told of this little episode after the fact, I'm not certain of the exact location, and Sherlock thought it redundant to waste our sparse phone calls with details about it. Obviously he survived the ordeal, but I truly have no information beyond that. That was the first of the fatal encounters."

Mycroft paused in his explanation as John let out a short, incredulous laugh; eyes fever-bright as a dull shade of pink mottled his neck and face.

"Just three weeks before he returned to London, he was hospitalized for a severe case of Hypothermia. I don't have to tell you how cold the Russian winters are, so I'll let you use your imagination in determining how well someone of his weight would hold-up in sub-zero temperatures."

"Why didn't you intervene?" John asked sharply, though Mycroft remained unphased at the outburst. "Hypothermia can be easily prevented with cheap materials. He was in _Russia_ , for God's sake, the place is easy enough to access. Why not pull some strings for him the way you always do?"

 

"Do I need to remind you of who we're talking about, John?" Mycroft asked calmly, an empathetic smile forming. "Sherlock can and will outwit any kind of unwanted supervision I try to implement into his life - he's done it since he was nine years old, and even then I wasn't an 'arch enemy.' If Sherlock doesn't want to be found, he won't be found. You know this."

 

"Right. Jesus. Go on." John replied as he ran a hand neurotically through his hair. "The final time, then. What happened."

 

"The closest he came to death happened in the second year. He was hiding in an undisclosed location somewhere in the Brazilian projects. It was all drug-cartel and illegal weaponry - a rough place to begin with without associating with Moriarty. Long story short, he was stabbed under his collar-bone with an imported Japanese knife. I don't know who did it or why it happened, as Sherlock has so politely asked me to stay out of it." John watched, disconcerted and a little bit sick, as Mycroft twirled his umbrella on the floor.

"His heart stopped for ninety seconds, but they were able to bring him back after the third shock to his heart. He stayed in hospital for six days in critical condition, and I arranged for him to be transported to a better facility for the following six weeks when he was declared stable enough to move."

And then an ice-water dread like none John had known in all forty years of his life poured unceremoniously over his body, dousing the flames of his previous anger into a few pitiful, pulsing embers.

"So he was--" John swallowed, mind eclipsing with the picture of Sherlock lying sloppily on the couch with a large, silver-crescent scar peeking out of the top of his shirt.

"Clinically dead." Mycroft announced as the umbrella ceased it's twirling. John looked up to find Mycroft gazing ambiguously out the window; a little bit fogged, and in a place a lot further away than London. "For one minute and thirty seconds."

John exhaled heavily as he fell back into the seat and massaged the swelling head-ache from his temples. He felt light and pliant and a tad off-kilter-- a rolling pendulum with a wobbling axis. He should have known, should have figured that it would be that level of damage, but he didn't think--

"The drugs. Did he use at all?" John asked, and Mycroft remained unswayed by the implication. Of any one in Sherlock's life, Mycroft was the most acquainted with that facet of Sherlock's past.

"I'm not sure he could have managed what he did had he been high, but I won't say he didn't. Drugs were accessible at all times and his morale was low. With Sherlock, we'll never know. We can't know." Mycroft commented in a time-honored resignation that he had obviously solidified over the years regarding the sheer power of what Sherlock was, and what he _could_ be when things went wrong. "I've told you every thing that I know, John. There were, of course, many other minor scrapes and bruises, but nothing as hazardous as what I've just told you. If there are any other injuries that you discover, I can assure you that they're unknown to me. In fact, I would be thankful if you'd mention to me any others that you do find."

"He flinches." John then interrupted, half in distraction and half-intentional.

"I beg your pardon?"

"He flinches." John reiterated, rounding to face Mycroft fully. "With loud noises. He flinches, and he doesn't sleep any more. Way less than he used to, anyway, and the nightmares-- he's like I was. Jesus, he's really--"

"Not okay?" Mycroft finished for him, and John found him to have a genuinely sympathetic smile when he said it. "You wanted me to be honest, John, so I have no reservations in telling you the truth. He's not okay."

And for a little while after-- two minutes or two years or two decades, John wasn't entirely sure, he could only mull that idea around in his head for a little while. It was the truth, but in an innacurate sort of way.

Sherlock had never been "okay" or anything close to it from a societal definition. If the drugs and Sociopathic tendencies weren't any indication, the obsessive, paralytic control that his mind had over the rest of his body was a flashing neon sign. So "okay" wasn't the right word to use here. Sherlock's not okay right now, but he never really was. Sherlock's not Sherlock right now, and that's the problem. That's worse than anything else.

"What do I have to do?" John asked as the floating feeling was replaced by a carbon resolve. "To fix him, or-- or whatever one does to help someone like Sherlock. I don't like it. What he is. And I want to help him."

"Then stay with him." Mycroft replied softly, and John's head snapped up to find him with a gravely serious expression on his face. "Even if he tells you to leave, _stay._ "

John found himself bristling inwardly at the implication that "staying" with Sherlock was something he wasn't planning on doing, but just 'staying' held no water in the wake of who and what Sherlock was. There had to be more; something ridiculously unorthodox and unconventional that would bring him some fraction of security in a time and place and brain where nothing was worthy of any kind of trust. It wouldn't be therapy, and it obviously wasn't going to be the cases. Perhaps it would be time, but John knew emphatically that he wasn't enough on his own-- enough to upset the madness, derail the neuroticy, or mend the cracks in his character from a three-year hell.

"I hate to get sentimental here, John, but I don't think it's unwarranted at this point." Mycroft said as he held John's eyes with a titanium burn. "You are the best thing that has or will ever happen to Sherlock, and I think you already know that. If you stay with him and weather the storms of every thing he is and will be over the next year, I can promise that the normalcy you both had will eventually find it's way back to 221b Baker Street."

"I wouldn't have, you know. Left him. I never even considered it." He replied somewhat off-topic, but feeling that is was equally as relevant as anything else he could have said.

"I know." Mycroft smiled as he straightened up. "Which brings me to our next topic of conversation. I do hope the information I've provided has been enough to constitute a favour?"

"Yes. Of course." He replied somewhat breathlessly, feeling as though he had run some kind of hell-based triathlon through that conversation alone. Mycroft proceeded to pull a folder out from the inside of his brief-case and extend it to him noncommittally. Opening it, John found the demographic profile of a tall, blonde-haired man with blue eyes and a scruffy beard.

"Christopher Dell." Mycroft explained as he replied to another text message on his phone. "American, home-schooled until he was fourteen, ex-military due to a dishonorable discharge, and a lengthy criminal background composed mostly of drug violations as a minor. He was thirty-two when he was murdered."

"By who?"

"The infamous Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft replied in feigned wonder.

"Moriarty's network, then?"

"Yes, quite a prominent member, actually. I've acquired a considerable amount of information on him, but only because of his military records. From what I understand, Christopher Dell had severe problems with authority from the time he was young -- never a good character quality for some one who enlists in the military, as you well know." John nodded in agreement as he flipped to the next page. "Regardless, he was a regular 'protegee' with a gun, but also outrageously unbridled. He served out several turbulent years as a Marine before he was expelled due to authority discrepancies, fighting, and foul play with drugs."

"Every branch has them, the crack-shots who are equal parts insanely good and just insane." John commented.

"Yes, well young Christopher here was accused of drug trafficking, trade, recreational use, distribution and personal profit of drugs in 2004. Miraculously, or perhaps not, the jury found him innocent despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Sound familiar?"

John grunted in agreement when he remembered a court room, a terrified jury, and the staggering verdict that placed Jim Moriarty back on to an overwhelming criminal web of his own creation.

"Not a very nice man, in any case. In 2006, however, he was accused of being the sole manager of one of the East Coast's largest drug trades for crystal meth. His area of influence extended from the Southern tip of Florida all the way up to West Virginia with his main area of operation located somewhere in South Carolina. You can see why he would have peaked Moriarty's interest."

"He had a network." John commented in slight awe. Despite his weak grasp of American geography, he knew that to be a considerably large expanse of territory.

"Yes, and unparalleled amounts of power over the criminal underworld. All things considered, he was top of the hierarchy on the Eastern Coast."

"The American Moriarty, just not as classy." John said as he flipped to the next page. "What exactly did he do for Moriarty?"

"Oh, a plethora of colourful things, but his primary job was to function as one of Moriarty's overseas snipers. You and Sherlock are well acquainted with Moriarty's love of snipers. He has them here, so naturally he had them in the States."

"Because the English aren't the only people who need a consulting criminal." John remarked, realization dawning as he huffed out a short laugh at the absolute absurdity of it all.

"Not by any stretch of the imagination. Cheating husbands and wives are found in every culture on earth, and by extension, so is the desire for revenge." Mycroft replied somewhat exhaustively with the Sherlockian exasperation of 'normal' humanity.

" _Dear Jim--_ " John iterated, the line forever scripted into his memory along-side pools and blue and Semtex and sniper lasers. "So why is he relevant now?" John asked, though blinking backwards as Mycroft pushed another profile in front of him. The man in this profile, however, was essentially a carbon copy of Christopher Dell, only with shorter hair and glasses.

"Sterling Dell." Mycroft explained as he tapped speedily over the keyboard. "The younger twin brother of Christopher Dell."

"Good God." John whispered as he observed the clean-shaven, slightly softer-looking twin. He scanned a few paragraphs before reading one particular section aloud: "Sterling Dell: a promising Duke University graduate who dropped out in 2006 despite a pending PhD in Chemistry."

"So the same year Christopher Dell is accused of running a crystal meth trade is the same year his younger twin brother abandons a prestigious PhD in chemistry for no specified reason. Following his dropped enrollment, Sterling was never heard from again. Essentially, Sterling Dell ceased to exist after the year 2006. Now why would a promising chemistry student with a drug-Lord for a brother drop out of school while on the cusp of a PhD?" Mycroft proposed, and realization burst through John as a morbidly-amused smile stretched on his face.

"Christopher Dell managed the crystal meth--"

"And Sterling Dell made it for him." Mycroft finished, and John couldn't help but be impressed with the utterly insane conspiracy of it all. "That's all speculation, of course, but all evidence points to this as being the most valid theory. Normally I wouldn't be worried about something of this nature, but I received passport information yesterday of one Sterling Dell arriving in London at 10:00 last night. He had the same last name, age, birth-date and place of birth as Christopher Dell, so that's when I did my research and found that he was, indeed, linked to Christopher Dell-- the man that Sherlock killed in cold blood."

"Oh God." John somewhat groaned as he slumped against the seat. "Please tell me he's not here to--"

"There is a very real possibility that Sterling Dell has arrived in London for the sole purpose of killing Sherlock." Mycroft explained, though not before breathing a small sigh. "When Sherlock 'returned from the dead' and his quest to destroy Moriarty's network was made known to the public, I'm afraid it simultaneously gave Sterling all the information he needed on who killed his brother."

Despite the slow-rumble of dread spinning somewhere in his solar plexus, John found himself laughing at the insanity of it all.

"Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelie-- and here I thought I had finally seen the last of Jim 'fucking' Moriarty." He laughed, though half-amused and half-livid. "Yet here we are again. Great. It's fine, though. It's _allll_ fine."

". . .If it's any consolation, Sherlock didn't anticipate this either."

"Right. So what do you want me to do?" John asked as a fiery, military resolve paralyzed any lingering doubts about what he would do if Sterling Dell were to show his face in front of John at any point in time.

"You aren't to do anything, John." Mycroft said casually as John visibly balked at the implication. "I've already instigated plans to intercept."

"Oh. Okay. Well, uhm. _Sod_ that, I'm not going to sit around and wait for someone to murder Sherlock. Why would you tell me this if you don't expect me to do anything?"

"I expect you to have Sherlock's back from all angles, John, but I do not expect you to go out looking for Sterling Dell. I can handle this."

"Like you handled Moriarty?" John taunted mercilessly, and something raw and thorned flashed through Mycroft's eyes.

"John, I've told you all of this information in the hope that you will be on guard for Sherlock at all times. I encourage you to carry a gun and watch out for Sterling Dell, but I don't encourage you to seek him out of your own volition." Mycroft replied as he began to file the profiles back into the folder. "In any case, Sherlock would very realistically destroy me if you were harmed and he believed me to be the reason for it. All I ask is that you look out for Sherlock's well-being in the way that you always have."

"If Sterling Dell gets too close for comfort, I will seek him out." John said factually, resolve flaring as Mycroft abandoned any reply he might have (pointlessly) tried. "And you want me to do it, don't you." John smirked, and Mycroft mirrored the expression back.

"I simply want Sherlock to have some semblance of peace after the last three years, and Sterling Dell has made me irritated enough to consider last-ditch efforts in order to bring him that peace. If one of those efforts is to trust you to destroy him without killing yourself in the process, then so be it." Mycroft explained, but not before snapping his briefcase shut and glancing at John with a glacial seriousness. "But I should warn you, John. If you do something reckless and end up killed, Sherlock will not be any better off than if he were to be killed by Sterling Dell. Quite the opposite, I'm afraid."

"Right." John nodded, though not entirely sure he heard anything after the words 'trust you to destroy him'. "And Sherlock-- we can't tell him of any of this."

" _Heavens_ , no!" Mycroft exhaled with an exasperated roll of his eyes. "That would be a suicide mission on my behalf, and likely yours as well. No, you are to remain absolutely confidential in this matter, as am I."

John's reply went unformed, however, as his phone vibrated in his pocket. Shifting upwards, he reached down inside and checked the screen to find one new message from  
Sherlock.

" _Tea_. -- SH"

"He doesn't actually want anything." Mycroft said in passing disinterest, and John found himself being pointlessly surprised again at the "Holmesian art of Omniscience and Telepathy."

"What does he want, then?" John inquired out of sheer curiosity, though somewhat regretting it as Mycroft smiled in the most genuine way that a Holmes presumably could.

"To know that you are still breathing oxygen, and that your heart is still pumping blood." He explained as he tapped on the middle-window with his umbrella. It rolled down sluggishly to reveal Anthea, posh sunglasses and all. "Turn down this street, Anthea. John is going to walk back to Baker Street from here." He glanced at John apologetically. "Sorry for making you walk the rest of the way, John, but Sherlock would immediately revert to his four-year-old petulance if he were to see the car, and I'm not up for dealing with tantrums right now."

"It's really fine."

The car pulled to a stop roughly four blocks from Baker Street, and John peered out the back window to find that the sun had already half-set with a few ambiguous shades of orange and purple. Cranking the door open, he began to slide out, but stopped abruptly to turn back to Mycroft.

"Somehow. . ." He tried, huffing out a frustrated breath of air. "There's a good chance I will never stop being angry with you for keeping me out of the loop. But for what it's worth, thanks for not keeping me out this time around." John explained as an impish half-smile curled up on one side of his mouth. "That's all." He made to shut the door, however, when Mycroft called his name once more.

"Thank you for being to Sherlock what I never could." He replied, and John noticed a distinct drop in volume that could have easily been interpreted as some variant of sadness for people who had conditioned themselves not to feel it. "I know he believes me to be an enemy, but I am far from one."

John gave a short nod of his head, shut the door, and made his way back to Baker Street; Mycroft going one way, and he going the opposite.


	3. But If You Were, I Would Tell You You Shouldn't Be.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When you try your best but you don't succeed, when you get what you want but not what you need, when you feel so tired but you can't sleep --stuck in reverse. Lights will guide you home and ignite your bones, and I will try to fix you." -- "Fix You" by Coldplay

The sky was a sleepy navy when John appeared in front of 221b, and the place was wonderfully devoid of any screaming, banshee violins.

 

"Oh, hello, dear." Mrs. Hudson chirped as she opened the front door, keys jingling in the lock. A warm yellow light flooded out behind her, and John thanked the gods that Sherlock seemed to be stewing on the lower spectrum of the high. If he were lucky, Sherlock would settle moodily between biting sarcasm and stormy cynicism for at least four hours. "Just bringing the herbs in so they don't catch frost."

"Has he been alright?" John asked as she handed him a leafy box of what smelled distinctly of basil. "And by alright, obviously I mean mildly impossible."

"The violin was a little evil for a while there-- he can do such wonderful things with it, I don't know why he wages such war on it."

"Did he go anywhere while I was out?"

"I don't think so. I did hear a few clashes and bangs, and I'm still worried for the state of my walls, but I didn't dare to go in and check." She laughed nervously. "He's quite scary in these conniptions, isn't he? --didn't want to put myself in the line of fire."

"I think that was probably for the best." John smiled as he glanced downward briefly and cleared his throat. "Listen, if he ever leaves and I'm not in, will you ring me? At any time, it doesn't matter."

"Of course, dear. I do understand." She replied, cheeriness somewhat graying with the downward spiral of the conversation. She must have realized and known in the same way that John did. "I do worry for him lately, John. Pacing all hours of the night and turning his nose to all of the treats I bring up. It's worse than it was back then. He must be terribly exhausted." She commented, her eyes angled with a barb of sadness.

"He is." John commented as the last of his hesitance abruptly snapped in half to make room for one of the last resorts he considered. But really, the bullshit had all gone far enough by now, and he wasn't in the mood to tolerate it for one more bloody hour. "Listen, I'm going to drop by Sarah's, would you mind not telling him I was here?"

"Of course. But do hurry back, John. You might catch your death of cold." She warned as she cradled herself in her coat, turned inside and shut the door behind her. John skipped off of the stair and made his way back down the street.

" _Can I stop by for a sec? I need a favor._ \--JW" He typed, breath curling in white puffs up his face. Stepping into the middle of the street, he hailed the first cab that rolled around the bend.

" _Of course. Are you okay?_ " Sarah returned as he slid into the car and called the street name to the front.

" _I'm fine, but if I have to deal with Sherlock another night, I might not be in the morning_ \-- JW"

" _You need a place to sleep?_ "

" _No. I need prescription narcotics_ \-- JW" He replied, inwardly steeling himself against the possible hell-storm Sherlock would bring later for this.

" _I'm not even going to ask. How many?_ "

" _Would 700 mg be selfish?_ \-- JW"

" _In one night???_ "

" _Jesus no. For the rest of the week_ \-- JW"

" _Alright. Is he okay, though? Sounds serious_."

" _It's getting to be. Be there in 15._ \-- JW" John typed as he buried the phone in his coat, cradled his head between his thumb and index finger, and watched London's glittered night-life whirring by.

It was a risky move, and Sherlock would put up a royal fight, but John was willing to weather the hysterics if it meant the man would get some kind of rest. Mycroft wouldn't like it, but Mycroft didn't have to know. He didn't think Sherlock would get physical-- not out of concern for John, of course, but more-so because Sherlock was habitually graceful in all that he did and said. High-emotion brawling was considered primitive and instinctual only to people of base intelligence. Realistically, he would probably become vitriolic and defensive, but John was well beyond the theatrics at this point in the game. Sherlock might not resort to physicality, but John had no problem hurting him a little if it meant bringing a greater healing in the process.

Bounding up the stairs to Sarah's, he thanked her profusely when she opened the door in her nightgown and handed him a bottle of large, white pills. He apologized for the trouble, and she saw him off with a smile on her face and her arms crossed to the cold.

"Baker Street." He called to the front, and the car purred to life as he shook two of the pills into the palm of his hand and studied them with the light of his phone. "Zolpidem."

A vibrate pierced the silence as he dumped the pills into the bottle and twisted the cap.

" _?_ \-- **SH** " The text read, and John groaned upon remembering the unanswered text.

" _Sorry. Tea is in cabinet where its been for the last YEAR._ \-- **JW** " He replied as Mycroft's words eclipsed his thoughts: _"He doesn't actually want anything._ "

" _If I wanted that tea, I would have used it already._ \-- **SH** "

" _If i wanted to buy more, i'd have done it already._ \-- **JW** "

A few minutes passed without a reply, but John assumed it to mean that Sherlock had chucked the phone on the floor in a fit of annoyance from where he lay petulantly on the couch. The rest of the ride home passed in relative silence with his thoughts deviating between Sherlock, Sterling Dell, Mycroft and Sherlock's "Adventures in Idiocy Around the Fucking Earth." With the threat of sterling Dell still unaddressed, it was probably unwise to leave Sherlock entirely alone from that point on. John would start leaving his gun, but only because Sherlock had obviously learned to use one well enough to hold it point-blank against his forehead in half a second of time.

He had to be careful not to hover, though. Sherlock would find the action suspicious, and that would derail the entire process if he were to begin to scrutinize at half the level he was capable of. Sherlock was _made_ to scrutinize; hell, it was his career.

The cab eventually pulled up in front of Baker Street, and John handed him the fare before taking the stairs by two and barrelling into blissful warmth.

"Sherlock." He called as he made his way to the living room. "Did you call Greg about th-" He stopped, however, upon finding Sherlock lying on the couch and blowing heavy, wounded exhalations of smoke into the room. An ashtray sat on the coffee table with at least a dozen crushed cigarettes buried in it, and all lighting in the room was fogged through with smokescreen. Three nicotine patches sat wilted and crumpled on the carpet. "What the hell are you doing?" He questioned.

"Smoking." Sherlock drawled as he placed the cigarette between his lips and sucked inward for an ungodly amount of time. He exhaled, releasing another swirling flood of smoke. "Obvious."

"Smoking, or building a fucking _furnace_?" John somewhat screeched. "It smells awful in here! You agreed to quit, Sherlock."

"I agreed that I would _try_ to quit, John-- not that I would actually succeed in doing so."

"Well that's admirable. With that kind of determination, you could eventually learn to roll off the _bloody_ couch. How did you even get them? You've paid every one off!"

"There are always cracks in the system. New homeless people to bribe, weak links who will buckle under the slightest pressure. Elementary." He finished as John slid his keys angrily across the table. "Did you bring me my tea?" Sherlock asked as he blew one last round of smoke into the air and crushed the cigarette in the tray.

"Uh. No." John iterated angrily, and Sherlock paused to shoot him an incredulous look.

"Well I'm glad _you've_ had a relaxing night." He spat as he abruptly stood, but braced his hand on the wall when he wavered dizzily on his feet.

And then John decided that he had had quite enough.

"Yepp. And you will too." He replied sharply as he set the bottle of pills on the table and turned to reach for a glass. Sherlock's wary scrutiny followed him from the cabinet back to the sink where John turned the tap on and filled it with water.

Turning, he placed the glass firmly in front of Sherlock along with two of the white pills.

"These are sleeping pills, and you're going to take them whether you want to or not." John replied, unphased as Sherlock merely snorted in response and reached for the box of cigarettes.

"Your threats are laughable at best-- especially in _that_ jumper." He gestured lazily as he held another cigarette to his mouth. He visibly balked, however, when John tore it out of his mouth and tossed it to the other side of the room.

"I can hear you pacing at night. All night, actually, and I know you don't 'do' sleep, but you do it less than you used to, which was dangerous back then, and just ridiculous now." John rattled off, actively trying to keep his voice level. Sherlock's expression dropped at least a hundred shades darker, and he scrutinized John; both warning and daring him to press the issue further.

"I'm fine." He replied, voice low and clipped.

"I know you are. I'm fine, you're fine, Mrs. Hudson is fine, we're _all_ fine; which is why you're going to take these pills, go to bed, and trust that nothing is going to come for you in the night."

And then John steeled himself as Sherlock walked slowly around the counter and planted himself directly in front of John; toe to toe, chest to chest. John peered upward to find Sherlock calculating him from 100 different angles at 100 miles an hour.

"You don't scare me, Sherlock. You never have, you never will, so don't bother." He remarked with no room for any kind of dispute to be made, and Sherlock's jaw rippled under the skin from where he clenched his teeth. John briefly flexed his hand at his side. "I'm not above hurting you over this if it means you'll come out better in the end." John remarked.

And then Sherlock's arm twitched at his side, and John made to brace himself against the blow when instead of moving forward, Sherlock reached back to swipe the pills off the counter; never once breaking his hold of John's attention. Bringing his hand to his mouth, Sherlock dropped the pills inside, chewed them deliberately, and swallowed them down.

"Not good. That's going to hit really fast, now." John explained, though Sherlock remained unaffected in his anger. "But thank you."

"Leave me alone for the rest of the night." Sherlock ground darkly as he spun on his heels and slammed the door to his bedroom. After a few long seconds, the light under the door flicked to black.

"Thank God." John exhaled as his phone vibrated on the table -- a new text from Sarah.

" _Just checking in. Is every thing okay?_ "

" _No. But it will be._ \-- JW" John sent as he picked the discarded cigarette off the floor, threw it in the glass of water, and turned the light off of another crime scene.

(Later)

"3:41." John groaned as he lay restless and disconsolate in his bed. Every thing was an inky blue-black, and he couldn't manage to throw water on the fire trails of his thoughts. When would Sterling Dell move, and would Mycroft really manage to intercept him? Would John be in the right place at the right time to kill him if Mycroft should fail? Would Sterling try to contact Sherlock? Contact himself? Would Sherlock's past follow him in this way for the rest of his life; a plague that he would never truly be able to outrun?

And if he could, would he ever be able to outrun himself?

"How do I help you, you bastard?" John whispered as he traced patterns on the ceiling. " _How am I supposed to help? It's not easy. It never was, but I want--_ "

He would've finished the thought if he had any inkling of how it was supposed to end. In all six months of Sherlock's resurrection, John never did find the words to say what he really wanted to say to Sherlock. Someday he would, and it would probably explode out of his chest like dynamite and reactive chemicals ricocheting off each others' molecules.

When Sherlock walked into that warehouse and had the audacity to stand before him, John rattled off a series of words that could never pretend to contain the caliber of anger and relief that he felt. Sherlock took it all in stride, battle-weary and tired, but never once gave any indication that he would apologize for what he had done. John left the warehouse in a delirious fog, and for the two weeks following, neither of them uttered a word to each other.

On the second week, though, Sherlock moved back into Baker Street.

On the third, he texted John at regular intervals without any more explanation to why he had done the things he had done. They were simple text messages without a shred of lingering awkwardness.

On the fourth week, he had shown up on John's doorstep at midnight: smoking a cigarette and asking John, point-blank, to move back home. Not 221b, John had observed, but home. He said no and closed the door.

On the fifth week, he began to show up uninvited in John's flat at all hours of the day. When Sherlock texted him about a dangerous homicide he was investigating, John showed up at the crime scene to help him against his better judgment. The night ended with both of them running through alleys and firing twin guns at faceless criminals. It was furiously perfect.

On the sixth week, Sherlock had shown up on John's doorstep at midnight: smoking a cigarette and asking John, point-blank, to move back home. Not 221b, John had observed, but home. He said yes and closed the door.

They eventually found some kind of rhythm again, but it never re-aligned into what it was before the hiatus. John wasn't naive enough to expect that it would, and he would've been okay with Sherlock's newer demons if they weren't progressively getting worse by the day and hollowing out the rest of what remained in Sherlock.

"Christ." John whispered as he rubbed his hands frenetically over his face. His thoughts were paralyzed, however, when a slow creak pierced the silence with the opening of his door.

And like the crack of a whip, John tumbled out of bed and tore his gun from underneath his pillow, aiming it squarely at the door. His sheet twisted around his feet as visions of Sterling Dell's profile shuttered rapidly through his thoughts, but when the door swung fully open, the light overhead turned on to reveal Sherlock standing in the entrance with his finger under the switch.

John exhaled in relief as his hand covered his heart.

"You scared me half to death, Sherlock! You _have_ to knock!" He rasped, unsurprised to find Sherlock looking devoid and blank under the narcotic-induced fog. "You alright?" John asked breathlessly as he stuffed the gun under his pillow and sat on the edge of his bed. Sherlock followed him with his eyes.

"Yes."

"Right. Good." He swallowed thickly, but when the next few moments held an awkward silence, he glanced up to find Sherlock; still drowsy and standing in his doorway. "Do you...need something?"

He didn't respond, and John observed in confusion as his mouth thinned and he concentrated on a spot on the wall. For once, Sherlock appeared as if he couldn't organize and make sense of what he wanted to say. Words and thoughts were like complicated theorems and equations all bouncing off of each other and refusing to stick.

"There are--" He started, but aborted the sentence as his mouth twisted in frustration. "Can I know?"

"Know...what?" John asked carefully, brows furrowing in confusion. Sherlock rolled his eyes, though it managed to appear more juvenile than offensive with the ridiculous curls flattened on one side of his head.

"I just want to know." He finished with finality as though it were sufficient enough for John to draw some kind of meaning from it. John opened his mouth to respond when he saw Sherlock, emphatically furious with the current state of his being, gesture drowsily to the other side of the bed with his hand.

And like the breaking of a rafter, realization flooded through John.

" _I just want to know--_ "

...that I'm safe. That you're safe. That some one will be able to wake up if someone enters. That someone will have the brain function to put up a fight if they do. That I'll survive this round of narcotics. That I'll survive this night. That I'm in control. That I won't leave. That you won't leave.

"Alright." John breathed, suddenly feeling an overwhelming empathy for the man who would never resort to this unless he was truly and utterly miserable in his own mind. "Alright."

Sherlock carefully turned the light off, crawled in bed beside John, and stayed as far away from him as he was physically capable of managing without falling off the bed. Turning off the lamp, John settled back down into the mattress. He opened his mouth once, closed it, then opened it again:

"Don't be afraid, Sherlock."

"I'm not."

"I know. But if you were, I would tell you you shouldn't be." He finished, unsurprised with a lack of reply.

Closing his eyes, he waited for a total of twelve minutes for Sherlock's breathing to regulate itself into even, predictable mechanics. Turning, he observed the inky curls splayed on the pillow and the soft, Botticelli mouth parting as air flowed through in wisps. The silver-mint nebula of his irises, though ambiguous in their hue depending on the day, were finally, finally seeing the dark of night behind pale, purple-veined lids. Like now, Sherlock always seemed to be doused in azure's, cobalt's and navy's; but rightly so, because he seemed to own the darkest shades of blue on the spectrum. He was navy in all of his thoughts and intentions. He was stretched thin and tall and ethereal in every way that he moved, spoke and lived.

He was, for all intents and purposes, the most striking person John had ever known. And would ever know.

After ten minutes of silent studying, he finally fell asleep to the soft expansions of Sherlock's chest.


	4. A Study in Strawberries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In your head, in your head they are fighting --with their tanks and their bombs, and their bombs and their guns. In your head they are crying. What's in your head? In your head, zombie?" -- "Zombie" by The Cranberries (Jay Brannan's version.)

John's eyes snapped open to an unfamiliar angle of light in the bedroom. Craning his head to the left, he saw the depression in the sheets where another body had been several hours before. He sighed in frustration as he rubbed his hands up and down his face.

Eyes fixed listlessly on the ceiling, he lay there for a second to consider exactly what kind of fire he was playing with with this one.

'Vulnerability and Sherlock' had never been close acquaintances. He was fearless, though it was entirely out of extreme indifference to his own life rather than an honorable management of courage.

That's what John was for, all things considered.

But Sherlock had appeared before him, fogged and dubious, proposing a question that John never once thought he would have to provide an answer for. The medication he gave was terribly strong - obviously _too_ strong if last night's abandon was any indication. It had utterly depleted Sherlock of some of the rigidity that he had constructed during the hiatus, so if he were to be objective, Sherlock's behavior wasn't entirely voluntary. Defenses were down.

No, the uncomfortable part for John was found in how easily he had accepted the transition - how easy it was to grow comfortable with Sherlock, alienesque and beautiful and unbridled, breathing next to him with a fractional trust that had dissolved somewhere along the way. Striking, maddening Sherlock with all of his righteous trails of destruction, just breathing for a damned minute beside him.

Sherlock was beautiful. Heart-rendingly so, and any indifferent passer-by would agree without the presence of attraction being there. It is what it is. Sherlock is beautiful, and the earth travels through space at a rate of 530 kilometers a second. It was factual: purely observant and clinical, and there didn't _have_ to be some kind of bizarre infatuation attached to the admission that he was beautiful.

It didn't _have_ to, but for the first time in their partnership, it kind of did anyway.

And that terrified John in more ways than seemed possible to resolve.

Rolling forward, he sat on the edge of his bed for a few moments and willed it all away before making his way to the kitchen.

"Three in the afternoon." He moaned as he observed the clock in the kitchen. "Christ, why didn't you wake me up?" John asked as Sherlock, gray t-shirt and robe, scrolled through the forum on his blog; most-likely desperate enough at this point to hound through the petty civilian cases.

"You aren't scheduled for the clinic today, and you have no other previous obligations. Didn't seem important." He replied as he leaned far back into the chair and stretched his arms above his head. John inwardly grimaced upon the flash of hollow-spaced ribs rippling through the shirt.

Wrong. All wrong.

"Have you eaten anything?" John asked casually as he reached for a coffee mug.

"Is that a serious question." Sherlock quipped, not bothering to tear his eyes from the screen.

"Would you eat something if I made it for you?"

"No."

"What if I asked you to do it for me?"

"Oh. Well that changes every thing _._ " He replied less caustically and more sarcastically, and John muttered a curse under his breath as he turned the tap on.

"I took Lestrade's case." Sherlock commented as he tapped one key with unnecessary force and stood from the chair. "He presented some new information that he neglected to mention the first time around. Honestly, why he didn't think to mention that the victim was a devout Catholic is incomprehensible to me. Regardless, it went from a strong six to a pitiful seven. "

"Oh." John huffed through a smirk as he turned towards the detective. " _Oh_ , I see. So all you're really telling me here is that all you had to do was call him back to find that out." He feigned amazement as Sherlock cast him an irritated glare. "It's a pity no one suggested you do that _yesterday_ \- could've spared us all the drama."

"Please don't try to be clever, John. It really doesn't work out for you as well as you think it does." He replied as he casually rounded the counter, plucked the mug out of John's hand and brought the rim to his mouth.

"Of course you can have some. Why would you think you needed to ask?" John iterated as Sherlock swallowed loudly and placed the mug back down on the counter. "You know that you are always entitled to _literally_ everything that I own."

"Oh, I know." He replied boredly. "I'm off for the shower."

" _Finally._ " John mumbled, ignoring Sherlock's pointed glare. The blessed, proverbial shower phase always meant that Sherlock was coming through the last flood-gate of his black mood. The door to the bathroom shut, and John sat down with coffee in hand to check his e-mail.

"Bullshit. Uh...bullshit. More bullshit." He murmured in exasperation as he scrolled through his e-mail. "Bull-"

He stopped, however, when he found an anonymous, subject-less message with a blocked address. Clicking on it, he found that it contained a toll-free phone number and a short message.

" **If you value your current situation, you will call this number within the next 12 hours using any alternate means of communication possible.** "

And then Sterling Dell's clean-shaven, bespectacled face scrolled like a film reel across his vision, and he suddenly felt himself run rigid on high-alert. It could always be a non-threatening fan just vying for the attention - weirder things had happened; but it could also be a very realistic prologue to the havoc that Mycroft warned him of. Pulling out his phone, he texted Mycroft on the cusp of an idea.

" _I need an alternate phone. Do you still have any?_ -JW" He typed, mentally grappling for the time Mycroft once mentioned supplying Sherlock with alternate phones while he was away.

" _I keep three different lines running for security reasons. Going to need clarity on why you would need an alternate phone before I agree to give you one._ \- MH"

Well fuck it all, Mycroft.

" _Possible first move from SD. Not sure, but need alternate line to confirm suspicion. He requested._ -JW"

" _Can I trust you not to conceive of anything irrational if I am to give you one?_ -MH"

" _You can trust me to watch out for your brother. That's all I promised and all you should have to know to do this for me. Need it ASAP_. -JW"

A few deliberate minutes passed before Mycroft replied, and John could picture Mycroft staring at the text and investing ample thought into all the ways this could go effortlessly wrong.

" _Sending Anthea to meet you at cafe you and Sherlock frequent -trusting you to keep this in absolute confidentiality. I don't need to expound on the hell storm Sherlock would bring for such an arrangement. Guard with your life._ -MH"

" _Thanks._ -JW" He replied, not sure if Mycroft meant guarding the phone or Sherlock, but that was neither here nor there. Slamming the computer shut, he grabbed his coat and sped out the front door.

Fifteen minutes later, he returned to the flat with an ache in his side and a second phone buried discreetly in his coat. Anthea, with all of her apathetic cunning, slipped it into his hand along with a scrap of paper from Mycroft with the phone's number. It was a remarkably ordinary phone - unassuming in it's economy styling and features. It was the perfect phone for nothing more than communication, and one of three that Sherlock had used at some point on some continent of the earth.

Ducking into his bedroom and locking the door behind, John pulled out the phone and composed a message to the number.

" _Who is this?_ "

" _There is a sniper recently stationed in the apartment opposite yours. Tell any one of this conversation or number and he has my express permission to shoot Sherlock Holmes immediately_." Came the reply, not failing to completely disregard John's question.

" _Apartment. American._ " John acknowledged inwardly as he made his way to the front door. Opening it, his heart skipped a beat upon sight of a group of men hauling boxes into a recently-bought flat across the street. " _Sterling Dell._ " He mentally confirmed as he shut the door behind himself and fell back against it.

" _What do you want?_ " He typed, suddenly unimpressed with the morbid excitement running up his spine.

" _One conversation. I need questions answered, and I know you can give them to me._ "

" _What kind of questions?_ "

" _Info about Sherlock Holmes participation in the death of a friend_." He replied, and John resigned himself then and there to bend to the mechanics and demands of what this man would ask him to do. Judging by a sniper planted over three weeks ago, it wasn't unrealistic to prepare for the worst.

" _What do I have to do?_ "

" _I'm unfamiliar with the area, so you are to immediately set a disclosed time and location to meet me. If you are late in reply, I'll contact the sniper._ " Came the answer, and pictures of isolated locations shuttered rapid-fire through his brain until he landed on a nauseating but perfect location.

" _Warehouse on west side of London, midnight Friday._ " He texted back, ignoring the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Fridays were historically his nights out at the pub. Sherlock wouldn't assume his absence as anything more if he did this right.

" _Confirmed. I will inspect the location on Friday. If I find cameras, scouts or wireless bugs, sniper will be contacted immediately. You will also be asked to disarm on arrival. If weapon is found, sniper will be contacted immediately_."

" _Understood._ "

" _I know of Sherlock Holmes relation to Mycroft Holmes. If I am arrested, contacted or intercepted before meeting, I will assume you have contacted him of your own accord and will contact sniper immediately_."

" _This bastard is ten steps ahead._ " John thought as he prepared a response. " _No one will be informed of any information._ " He texted back.

" _Wise decision, Dr. Watson. Destroy my email and do not contact me via computer after this_."

" _Understood._ " John returned finally. Barreling out the front door, he was already dialing Mycroft's number as he paced down the street, breath coming in white puffs of air in front of his vision.

"Mycroft Holmes."

"Don't intercept SD, Mycroft. If you've arranged anything, call it off now."

"So it is Sterling Dell." Mycroft commented after a short pause, voice traced with a slight fatigue. "I must say I'm surprised he contacted you. I was almost positive he would target Sherlock in his approach. What has he threatened?"

"He's had a sniper stationed in the flat across the street - I already checked, and it looks like he's telling the truth. Men have been moving boxes into it for the last two weeks. He said if he is arrested or intercepted, he will order the sniper to shoot Sherlock on contact. He knows your Sherlock's brother."

" _Oh_. Oh, I can already tell he's going to be a good one. Obviously a seasoned criminal by the looks of things. Surprising for a chemist, though - theatrics usually don't appeal to the involuntary criminals. It's really a shame that Sherlock has to sit this one out. It's right up his alley."

" _Sherlock_ , Mycroft." John iterated. "We're talking about Sherlock's _life_ , here. Are you going to call off whatever you've arranged?"

"That depends. What reckless condition has he asked of you that you're pointedly not telling me about?" Came the question, and a few suspended moments passed.

"A conversation. That's all he asked for."

"And you believe that?" Mycroft laughed.

"I don't know. No, I don't actually know what to believe, but it doesn't matter. You told me I could have free reign if he got too close, Mycroft, and this - _this_ is the textbook definition of too fucking close for me."

"John-"

"I already agreed to it. I've considered other options, but the bastard has traps at every possible loophole. The time and place is set, so I suggest you offer help instead of disapproval. There's a little at stake here if you've momentarily forgotten."

"You arranged to meet him?" Mycroft asked incredulously. "Oh, for the love of _God_ -

"If you're not going to help me, I'll cut you out of this whole goddamned thing, Mycroft."

"What exactly are you expecting me to do, John? I can call off the government interference and play ignorant, but where does that leave you? On God's good humour? Where and what time have you arranged for this meeting?"

"Friday at midnight. The warehouse where I met you and Sherlock that night."

"John." Came his name spoken somewhat sympathetically, but he steam-rolled on.

"Sherlock expects me to be out on Fridays, so he'll suspect nothing if I return later than usual."

"That's assuming you return at all. Are you at least going to carry a weapon? Or have you decided to be as careless as humanly possible in this private endeavor?"

"He said I'll be disarmed on arrival, and if a weapon is found, he'll contact the sniper. He already has plans to search for cameras, scouts and wireless bugs, and obviously he's good enough to know where and what to look for, so don't bother with that route." John explained. A few minutes of deliberation passed as John waited for Mycroft's response. He could see the man sitting at his desk with steepled fingers and a perfectly-controlled anger.

"Since you've already decided to go about this in the _most_ lethal way possible, this is what we're going to do: After this call, I'm going to dispel the operation I had previously planned for his arrest. When you get home, you are going to conceive of a believable way to destroy your computer, because Sherlock can and will access your email account. I'll provide you another after this is over, but it is imperative that all information be erased. You, John, are going to commit to the time and place you set without a weapon present. After one hour of this supposed 'conversation' with him, I will have the best assassin available to station himself in the most discreet area of that warehouse and shoot him immediately - not a second sooner or later. I will have a team and an ambulance waiting five miles away to come for you once I have confirmation that he and any of his party members are killed. Assuming you have no injuries, I will escort you back to 221b Baker Street where you will never mention to Sherlock what transpired. In the event that you are injured, I will have no choice but to create some ludicrous explanation for Sherlock who will almost immediately deduce it for the lie that it is, so I suggest you do your level _best_ to remain unharmed, John."

"Right." John cleared his throat, inwardly applauding Mycroft for his ability to strategize. "Good. Now that's settled, I have another question."

"Oh. Please." Mycroft drawled in tired annoyance.

"What was Sherlock's favorite food as a child?"

"...I beg your pardon?"

"What kind of food did he like as a child? The bastard's almost skeletal, so I'm desperate enough to try anything at this point." A few quiet moments passed.

"He was a notoriously picky eater as a child, John -that much hasn't changed. But If I remember correctly, he was always quite fond of strawberries and sugar."

"My God. Really? How. . .cute." John huffed, stifling a laugh.

"Yes. Well. His bark is worse than his bite. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a monumental military operation to call off."

"Alright. Thanks, Mycroft. Really."

"John-"

"Yes?"

"I know why you have agreed to this, and in a lot of ways, I can only respect you more for choosing to do this. But I'm not going to neglect to mention how utterly disastrous for Sherlock this could be if things go wrong."

"Things are already wrong, Mycroft." He replied, voice heavy with a sad resignation. "I'm trying to fix it in the way that I know how, and that's by eliminating the problem as quickly and efficiently as possible by going to it before it comes to me. I'm not Sherlock. I don't know how to fix these things with shadows and magic and smokescreen. I don't know how to do this any differently."

"I know, which is why I'm trusting that you will come out of this alive and well. Do not disappoint me."

"I won't." He finished through a small grin as the other line clicked dead. He began to make his way back to 221b before he remembered Mycroft's words, turned on his heel, and made his way down the other end of the street.

One hour later, he re-entered into the blooming warmth of 221b to find Sherlock, crazed and neurotic, scouring the bookshelves and tossing their contents sloppily to the floor.

"Oh, for the love of- what the hell are you on about now?" John groaned as he hauled several bags on to the floor.

"I'm not going to dignify that with a response." Sherlock commented in passing as he flung the cushions off the couch and reached down inside of the framework. "You know exactly what I'm 'on' about."

"No, I actually really don't. If you would stop molesting this entire room, perhaps you could explain to me why you're in the process of losing your sodding _mind._ "

"The cigarettes, John! Hell, we've done this before!" Sherlock barked as he dumped a silver vase of pens and pencils onto the coffee table and peered down inside. Chucking it aside, he suddenly stopped in his destruction to stare at John with his "epiphany" face. "We _have_ done this before. You have them. Where do you have them?"

"I don't have them." John replied as Sherlock spit out a laugh.

"Do you think I was born thirty minutes ago? Of course you have them! Mrs. Hudson hasn't been up in five days and I had them last night. Ignoring your history of hiding them, you don't like the fact that I've taken them up again, and you went to bed after I did, so obviously the only logical explanation I can draw from this is that _you have done something with them_." Sherlock rattled off as John stared at him in pretend wonder.

"Holy shit." He said, starstruck. "You should be a detective or something."

"You should tell me where they are before I bury that jumper in the grave of the body you stole it off of."

"Rudeness will get you nowhere." John commented cheerily as he began to unload the shopping into it's various drawers and cabinets.

"John. _Please_." Sherlock commented as his voice cracked with a weird kind of turmoil, and John turned to find a very realistic desperation on his face.

During his three years away, Sherlock had developed the cigarettes into an utterly co-dependent habit - for all of the noxious damage they could cause, smoking was possibly the only thing he had had to look forward to during a time of such misery, and John wasn't cruel enough to undermine that. He wasn't cruel, but he was reasonable, and things had to start fucking changing around 221b whether they had to start in baby-steps or otherwise.

Giving the detective a sympathetic look, John slowly opened the freezer door and reached down into the tube of the ice dispenser - it was a good thing Sherlock neglected any liquid except tea and coffee.

Pulling his hand back out, he turned and held the pack in front of Sherlock as a spark flashed in his eyes.

"Of course. Stupid." Sherlock murmured as he reached for the cigarettes, though balking as John snatched them back.

"On one condition." John spoke firmly.

"Oh _God_." Sherlock groaned as he crumpled into the kitchen chair.

"God won't save you now, so I suggest you humble yourself before you say _entirely_ the wrong thing." John warned, but Sherlock only observed him in exhausted suspension. After a few moments, John spoke up: "For every meal that you eat, I will give you two cigarettes. Two."

Sherlock scoffed.

"Do you really think you can hide them from me, John? You may be a decent crack-shot, but your guile has the subtlety of a common _train-wreck_."

"Well, that actually works out well, then, because I wasn't ever planning on hiding them. I'll just destroy them."

"I don't think you are adequately comprehensive of how much of a mistake that would be."

"No?" John asked as he pulled one cigarette out of the pack, dropped it down the sink's drain, and triggered the loud, grating sound of the garbage disposal as it cut the cigarette to shreds. "Because the way I see it, the only one with anything to lose here is you."

John smiled, stubborn, as Sherlock radiated the very particles of hatred in his direction.

"It's meals and cigarettes, or nothing at all." John reiterated, and the level glare Sherlock concentrated on him attempted (vainly) to corrode him into the floorboards.

"I will eat _nothing_ greasy." Sherlock spat.

"Good." John chirped as he reached into the bag. "Because we're dining light tonight." He finished as he dropped a crate of fresh strawberries sharply onto the counter. Reaching behind, he rifled through the cabinets until he found a bowl, a colander, and a cutting knife.

In furious curiosity, Sherlock tracked every movement John made as he whirred through the kitchen. Dumping the strawberries into the colander, he ran them under cold tap water for two to three minutes before placing them back on the counter. Grabbing the knife, he began to cut the leafy tops off of every strawberry against his thumb. After all stems had been removed, he proceeded to cut each strawberry into heart-shaped halves- their red-blood exteriors sparkling as they dropped into the bowl. Turning, John reached for the glass jar of sugar in the cabinet and grabbed a tablespoon from the drawer.

And then Sherlock understood.

"Mycroft." He commented in disgust as he stood from the chair.

"Uh. . .what?" John asked in his best demonstration of innocence.

"It was Mycroft, wasn't it? Of course it was." He quipped. "Always sentimental about the most ridiculous things."

"Sherlock, what the hell are you talking about?" He asked in pretend exasperation. Grabbing a tablespoon full of sugar, he began pouring it over the strawberries as Sherlock sent him a calculating look.

Toppling the strawberries over on themselves once, he sprinkled one last heaping spoonful of sugar over top of them. In one last flurry of movement, he grabbed two biscuits and firmly buried them upright against the side of the bowl. With two knuckles, he shoved the bowl towards Sherlock who observed it the same way one would observe sugar-coated roadkill.

"Your move." John replied as he gestured his head towards the bowl.

Doubtful, Sherlock snatched the bowl off of the counter and flopped onto the sofa. Wiping the counter of the sticky, pink juice, John smirked to himself when he caught a glimpse of Sherlock plopping the strawberries one-by-one into his mouth.

"I'm going to the morgue tomorrow." Sherlock replied after a few minutes. "Molly has the body of Haley Moxley."

"Who?" John asked as he sat down at his computer.

"The victim from the case I told you about. The Catholic girl."

"Mm." John commented non-noncommittally as he moderated through twelve new comments on the blog. He was in the process of replying to one of the comments, however, when something small and wet pelted him in the face. He glanced to find a strawberry on the floor next to his chair and Sherlock with another ready to be flung in his general direction.

" _What_ , Sherlock? For the love of all that's good in this world, _what_ do you need at this moment in time?"

"I said, are you coming?"

"Where?"

"To the morgue. I want a second look at her body."

"And why are you telling me this?" John asked, though somewhat balking as Sherlock merely sighed and closed his eyes.

"How you have managed forty-one years of life..." He trailed off in pretend wonder. "Why do I _normally_ mention crimes scenes to you, John?"

"So I can blindly follow you over all of creation and offer assistance that you don't really need." John replied factually as he finished his reply to the anon.

"Yes, _thank you_! We've only been doing this for, what? Five years?"

"It's not even a crime scene, Sherlock."

"Then what, pray tell, would you call it John?"

"Fucking _bizarre_ , for starters."

"John." Sherlock then spoke with a heated annoyance, and John stopped in his typing to turn towards him.

"Why would you need me for something like this, Sherlock? It's not dangerous or lethal- it's _science_ for God's sake, and that **is** your area." He gestured as he turned back to his computer.

"Conductor of light, John. Have we not already had this conversation?"

"Yes, but do I really need to be there for the safe, non-violent things?"

"Yes." Came the emphatic reply, though there wasn't a hint of amusement in Sherlock's tone. Turning towards him, John saw a seriousness in Sherlock's expression that betrayed the light-heartedness of the conversation that he thought was mutual.

"Alright, Sherlock. Alright." He sighed, though quietly happy, as he reached for his medic kit in preparation for entering part two of the night's potential disasters. Approaching the couch, he pinned the detective with a serious gaze as he slowly placed two more of the white pills on the table along with two new cigarettes. Sherlock glanced at them, then looked back to John.

"We can do this the hard way or the easy way." John spoke, controlled, buffering himself for another potential fight after last night's emotional roller-coaster through all nine layers of hell.

"And if I don't?" Came the challenge on raised eyebrows.

"Then I start my next blog entry. I'm thinking, 'A Study in Strawberries: An Adorable Fact About Sherlock Holmes.' You'll be receiving crates of strawberries in the mail until you're a goddamned _fossil_." John laughed. A burst of warmth hit his chest as Sherlock's own laughter betrayed his best intention of appearing threatening.

Turning, he sat back at his laptop and checked one last time for any new emails from Sterling Dell. After a good thirty minutes of Sherlock's descriptions of the Catholic girl and her lover, the eventual lack of sound prompted him to glance upward and find Sherlock fast asleep on the sofa; the pills gone from the table.

And this time, he allowed a very real smile.

Turning off his computer, he grabbed the empty bowl and glass and placed it in the sink. Pulling the blanket off of the back of the sofa, he threw it evenly over Sherlock's body. Finally, he turned off the light and made his way to his own bedroom.

(Later- 3:45 AM.)

Muscles and bones creaking, John walked back into the kitchen for his semi-regular adventure into the world of insomnia in which chamomile was the only cure. Grappling for the kettle, he suddenly paused upon seeing Sherlock's body on the couch.

Adjusting his movements to a lighter volume, he began to reach for a tea-cup when a few soft whimpers came from the detective. Lightly shuffling over, he turned on the table-lamp to find Sherlock, brows furrowing and un-furrowing as his eyes darted rapidly under his lids - a familiar expression of seeing too many "not good" things at a time.

He knew it intimately himself.

Another one, John thought, as the soft whimpers grew into suppressed moans.

"Sherlock." John whispered, but to no avail as he remained twitching on the sofa. "Sherlock." He called a little louder, noting the sharp furrowing of Sherlock's brow when he spoke it. Reaching forward, he placed his arm on Sherlock's shoulder and shook him gently.

"Sher-" He started, but was abruptly cut off as a flash of silver whirred into view and slammed down across his forehead, ripping a momentary black-out through his brain and vision. Stumbling backwards, he dizzily felt a distinct tearing above his eyebrow as the offending object split the skin open to dump blood trails unceremoniously down his face.

"John." Came the low baritone, and John glanced up to find Sherlock standing and dropping the offending weapon onto the floor as he flew past him - the silver vase he had assaulted earlier that night over the damn cigarettes.

Bending over, John held the palm of his hand under his eye to catch the dripping blood.

"Jesus." John commented as he tried to tether himself against the vertigo. Suddenly, a cool hand cradled the back of his head as the other held a damp cloth over the pulsing wound. He glanced upward to find Sherlock, slightly panic-stricken, (but probably due to the narcotics) trying to make sense of the situation through the sleeping pills.

"Are you-"

"Yeah, it's fine. Facial wounds bleed a lot more than other wounds, so don't let the blood put you off."

"Why would you do that?" Sherlock asked, irritated, as John's hand replaced his own on the cloth. The hand on the back of his head dropped, and he glanced upward to find Sherlock crouching in front of him.

"I don't know. I should've known not to wake someone from a nightmare - I've decked a few people myself before." He hissed. "Jesus, Sherlock. Were you aiming to _kill_?"

"What are you doing down here?" He asked, pointedly ignoring the question, though John wasn't really expecting an honest answer to begin with.

"Came to make myself some tea and noticed you were-" He stopped upon catching Sherlock's less-than-pleased expression. "Anyway, it's probably a good thing it happened. The sofa is a shit place to sleep. You should be in bed."

And then whatever demon was bottled inside Sherlock seemed to release itself in one sharp breath, and he stood up.

"Ridiculous." He murmured drowsily, though not before pointlessly cataloging the wound one last time as he helped John to his feet. "Are you going to be alright?"

"Yeah. It hurts like hell, but nothing serious. It's all fine." He assured. "Let's get you to bed. I may be partially concussed, but you're too medicated to find your own arse right now."

Sherlock grunted low in his throat, but proceeded to his bedroom as John followed behind. .

"You going to be alright?" John asked as Sherlock crawled gracelessly into his bed. When a response never came, John cleared his throat and reached around to turn off the bed-side lamp. "Right. Let me know if you need anything."

As he turned to leave, however, a hand shot out and grasped his wrist. He glanced backwards to find Sherlock staring at him ambiguously from the bed.

"Yes?" He asked, suddenly uncomfortable with the direction that question could lead.

"You should-" He tried, but aborted the thought with the thinning of his lips. "I think you should stay."

"Sherlock." He huffed out a short breath of air.

"In case you are concussed. I should--" He closed his eyes and gave a minute shake of his head, clearly frustrated with his inability to get a solid grasp on his thoughts.

"Highly unlikely." John whined as he pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to will away the throbbing headache.

" _John._ " Came the sharp reply, and John found Sherlock's countenance to be as rigid as the hand around his wrist. Sherlock held his attention for a few long, unquestioning moments until John audibly sighed.

"Okay." John exhaled exhaustively as Sherlock shifted to the other side of the bed. "Okay, Sherlock."

Turning off the lamp, John settled down into the mattress and willed away the thousands of flaming reasons why this would eventually prove to be a disastrous thing.

Closing his eyes, he eventually fell asleep to the count of Sherlock's even breaths; unaware that the detective, though fogged and slightly delirious, spent the better part of the next hour simply staring at him.


	5. Hell Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Leave me out with the waste, this is not what I do. It's the wrong kind of place to be thinking of you. It's the wrong time for somebody new. It's a small crime, and I got no excuse." -- "9 Crimes" by Damien Rice

"Okay, I understand that, but I'm not sure you're not over-thinking the whole thing." John explained as he flipped the omelet he was cooking over once in the pan where it landed with a soft sizzle. "You said it yourself -- _'a typical lovers' spat that took a slight turn for the worse the way they all do.'_ I think you're bored enough to turn this into something more complex than it is."

"No. _Wrong_. I've classified at least a hundred different cases for romantic and sexually-motivated homicides, and the typical motives aren't matching up with this one." Sherlock responded distantly as he paced through the room. "I thought it was trivial, but it's not. I've missed something."

"How can homicide have 'typical motives' anyway? If people are mentally unstable enough to commit murder in the first place, I would think their motivations could never be categorized with any kind of accuracy. Pass me the salt." He gestured vaguely as Sherlock tossed it apathetically onto the stove where it spun salt granules across the surface. "Have you considered that their deaths might actually be what they appear?"

"Nothing is ever what it appears." Sherlock replied in distraction as he held a photograph of Haley Moxley and Patterson Shelley's bodies into the morning light.

Haley Moxley and Patterson Shelley-- the two very attractive yet very dead lovers involved in Sherlock's newest puzzle. She was tall and ginger, Irish by ancestry but American by birth. He was older, though still chiseled and fit with a brown crew cut, blue eyes and a thin mouth.

The clock struck 11:00 AM as John slid the omelet onto a plate and nudged it towards Sherlock. The detective glanced down from the picture to pin John with a wary scrutiny. He smirked to himself, however, when Sherlock's eyes briefly flicked to the angry laceration etched into his eyebrow before he wordlessly reached for the plate, and began cutting small bites of egg into his mouth.

Not a single word had been uttered in reference to sleeping together. John was both grateful and wholly unsurprised.

"Guilt looks great on you." John chided, a small smile humoring the instigation. "But it really is fine. It was my fault, in all honesty. I should've known better."

"90% of these types of murders are traditionally motivated by infidelity and jealousy." Sherlock explained, pointedly ignoring John's previous comment. "Lover one suspects lover two of infidelity, kills them in cold blood. Lover two feels stifled after years of lover one's jealousy, puts a bullet through their head. It's classic, though there's always the 10% to account for. It's _maddening_."

"If his fingerprints were on the gun and both of their bodies had identical bullets lodged in the point of entry, it seems logical to assume that he shot her and then killed himself. I don't see where your problem is."

"I'm not at all surprised by that." Sherlock commented passively. " _Think_ , John - it's always easy to find cracks in the relationship if you know where to look. Where would you look first if you suspected your significant other of cheating?"

"I guess I'd start with their phone history." He offered.

"Wise decision. One look at any and all e-mails, calls, and text messages is usually enough to close the case in one day's time, but I have yet to find any indication of foul play on either side. All exchanges are clean, and his status as a respected FBI operative suggests a level of morale that challenges any suspicion of cheating. She won multiple awards for military service and charity work, and they've managed to sustain a fifteen-year relationship with each other." He plopped a forkful into his mouth. "They're both so nauseatingly _good_. It's making my life difficult."

"How _dare_ they." John muttered in mock fury as he braced his elbows on the counter and held a cup of coffee in both hands. "Why were they in London anyway?"

"Don't know, though I intend to find out." He responded as he placed his plate in the sink, wrapped the proverbial scarf around his neck, and straightened the collar of the Belstaff. "She grew up in foster care and he was the only child to two dead parents, and nobody has stepped up to claim them otherwise. All signs point to their being here as tourists, but I don't actually know yet -- I'm thinking an anniversary trip judging by her sapphire ring. It looked new."

"I wonder why they didn't just get married." He mused.

"Probably not safe in his line of work to share a last name-- likely has too many enemies who would be willing to use her against him."

"Well." John cleared his throat. "It's a good thing they didn't have a run-in with good ol' Jim. I'm not sure different last names would have helped them-- didn't help me, anyway, if the Semtex was any indication."

Inhaling, John stood and stretched wildly, though stopping with his arms held mid-air and shirt hiking up as he caught sight of Sherlock pinning him with an incredulous expression.

"What?" He asked, exasperated. 

"Nothing." He muttered as he tossed the photo on to the table. "Get dressed. We're going to Bart's in fifteen minutes."

"Sherlock." He groaned, head falling back and eyes closing in fatigue.

"Are we really going to do this _again_ , John?"

"Calm down. I'm going." He muttered as he dumped the rest of his coffee into the sink. "It's a good thing I'm coming along for this one, too. I wouldn't want you to go it alone if Molly finally decided to enact the coup d'état she's been planning against you. Who would be there to save you otherwise?" He asked sarcastically, though trying not to laugh at the prospect of Molly holding Sherlock hostage for some kind of ransom.

"If Molly Hooper ever held me at gun-point, I can assure you her only demand would be my hand in marriage." Sherlock giggled, and John found himself struggling to stifle his own laughter.

"Be nice, Sherlock. She's a good person." He scolded, laughing as he held an accusing finger at Sherlock. "And if you ever do become interested in marriage, I daresay she's going to be your only option."

"Oh, undoubtedly. But until then, I always have you." Sherlock smirked, and John suddenly found his amusement diluted by something different --something less hilarious, and a little more frightening in it's nature.

"Yeah. I guess so." 

**(An Hour Later - The Morgue)**

"She hasn't had the formal examination yet. Detective Inspector Lestrade told me to let you have a go at her before anything else was done. ---well, toxicology was sent off, but that's it. They don't usually follow the rigorous protocol if the cause of death is already known." Molly explained nervously as Sherlock unzipped the body bag and cataloged Haley Moxley, pale and rigid with fiery hair, lying dead on the table. "She's scheduled for radiology in an hour, so do what you can."

"Where's the bullet?" Sherlock asked as he held the pocket magnifier to the bullet hole in her belly. He ran a thumb lightly along the edges of the crude scar.

"Under lock and key. I can get it for you, if you --if you want." She offered hopefully, gesturing outside the door with a thumb. "It might take a little bit, but I'm sure I can convince them."

"That would be lovely, Molly." He commented through a false smile, and John rolled his eyes. Grinning shyly, she half-turned, stopped, and then proceeded to walk out of the room. Her footsteps echoed on the linoleum, and the door shut with a loud metal click.

"You did that just to get her away, didn't you?" John asked as he stepped up to the table. "You already know it's going to take her at least half an hour to get permission to access the evidence."

"Obviously." He replied, mind whirring helter-skelter in an attempt to find something new --something undiscovered that would function as a catalyst into the next stage of the game.

Thirty minutes soon passed with Sherlock painfully scrutinizing every detail of her body from her hair follicles to her nail beds. Frustrated, he snapped the magnifier shut and tossed it onto the table. He stood up and rounded to the other side of the table with both hands braced against the surface.

"Where is Patterson Shelley's body?" John asked carefully.

"Gone." He waived, dismissing the inquiry. "I already looked at it, though. Nothing there. Why can't I--" He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, and John could tell he was quickly derailing along the already-thin tracks of his patience. "This murder makes no sense. It shouldn't have happened, the motivation isn't logical."

"Nothing really is when it comes to love." John offered factually, and Sherlock cast him an unimpressed glance across the examination table.

"Are you planning on offering something that's not entirely useless within the next hour? If I wanted-"

"Oh for God's sake, _move_." John ordered as he knocked Sherlock to the side and stood over the body, not bothering to spare Sherlock an apologetic glance.

He wasn't as good as Sherlock at this --could never even hope to be, either. But every now and then, his clinical background and detachment from the finer details gave him the edge over Sherlock. It was all a game to Sherlock --a morbid puzzle, a Rubik's cube with higher stakes, a Study in Obsession, an almost erotic high. But sometimes, when Sherlock got lost in the swirling depth of the details and synapses, John could manage to stay afloat in a way that Sherlock never could.

This was never "fun" to John Watson. It wasn't a game.

"I really think this might be exactly what it appears, Sherlock." John explained twenty minutes later as he riddled through any and all of the various signs and symptoms of different types of death. 

Sherlock audibly scoffed from somewhere behind.

"No. _No_ , I'm not saying you're wrong, but I _am_ saying you're not going to find the answer on her body." He explained, bending low over her face. "I think you're going to have to go back to the crime scene and look for information th-" He stopped, the word aborting into air as Sherlock's brows furrowed with the interruption.

"John?" He asked, stepping up to the other side of the table and bending down to meet him at eye level. He glanced warily between John and her face as John opened her mouth and sniffed.

"Get me some hemostats." He ordered as he pulled a surgical flashlight out of a cabinet to the left. Bristling at being ordered around, though infuriatingly curious at the same time, Sherlock rifled through a drawer and handed him the silver hemostats. "Hold her mouth open."

"Why-"

"Just do it." John ordered as Sherlock, brows furrowing in disapproval, snapped a latex glove over his hand and pried her mouth open using his thumb and pointer fingers. He continued to watch John, fascinated, as he fell into his severe, Afghanistan field-surgeon persona. Craning the flashlight into her mouth, John angled the hemostats and maneuvered them carefully down her throat.

"John-"

"Metal." John replied distractedly. "I smelled metal. Possibly corroded or rusting in her saliva, so definitely something metallic."

After a few seconds of careful surgery, John whispered a quiet "Aha" as he pulled the hemostats up out of her mouth. Sherlock watched, utterly mystified, as a long chain-linked necklace with a heart-shaped locket came out with it. John plopped the locket into his hand and observed it in confusion as Sherlock rounded the table and appeared beside him.

"It's a locket." John commented, baffled. "Why would-" He trailed off, however, when he realized he didn't know which question of at least a hundred he wanted to ask first.

"Let me see it." Sherlock demanded as John rolled the wet necklace into his hand. Frenetically, Sherlock pried the locket open with a fingernail and flipped it open, revealing Haley Moxley's picture on the left side and an empty space on the right side with what appeared to be a few tiny slivers of paper stuck to the edges.

"It's been torn out." John observed, sidling up next to Sherlock to look inside the locket. "Whatever picture was on that side, it's gone." He said as he casually plucked it back out of Sherlock's hand and flipped it closed.

For reasons unknown to Sherlock, he suddenly found himself dazed and speechless and utterly untethered at the prospect of the man standing six inches from him.

"You were right about her religion --the Catholic crucifix is on the front of the locket with 1st Corinthians 13: 4-8 engraved on the back." He said, quietly, rubbing his thumb softly over the engraving. "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered. It keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always. . .perseveres." He finished the sentiment on a whisper, spoken utterly reverently and a little bit sadly as though it were a prayer.

For them, it probably was.

Glancing upward, John opened his mouth to speak when he found Sherlock, speechless, staring at him in what he could only describe as utter petrification; and he could not, for the life of himself, tear his gaze away from the detective as the locket sat sacredly in his palm. The lighting in the hospital always lit Sherlock's iris into staggeringly azure flames.

"How did you--" Sherlock whispered as his eyes fluttered closed in frustration, his idiosyncratic sign of missing something obvious. "You were raised Catholic?"

"Christian, actually." John commented, desperate to dissolve whatever crippling atmosphere they had found themselves under. "Lost most of the religion in my twenties, but there are definitely some things worth remembering."

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond when the door burst open with a shove, revealing the smiling and breathless face of Molly holding a bag with the bullet inside.

"Got it." She huffed as she proudly handed the bag to Sherlock. "Sorry for the wait --technicalities, you know. Did you get all the information you needed?"

"Yes." Sherlock commented, eyes held fiercely onto John's. "I --yes. Thank you, Molly." He finished, sharply shaking his head as the daze he was under seemed to snap in half and pelt him back into reality.

"Right. Yes." John cleared his throat. "We should probably be heading back. Thanks for your time, Molly."

"Of course." She chirped. "Anytime. Sherlock, would you-"

Sherlock was already barreling out the door, however; all coat tails and shadows.

(Five Hour Later - 221b Baker Street)

"It still doesn't make sense." Sherlock muttered angrily as he abruptly shoved a medical text off of the counter with the back of his hand and threw the crime scene's portfolio down in it's place. The locket sat unassumingly under the microscope, spread open and wide from the last hour of Sherlock's scrutiny.

"What could you possibly have to consider?" John asked, irritated, as he filed the book onto a shelf. "The picture on the right has been torn out. Either she was cheating on him and ripped his picture out, he was cheating on her and she ripped it out, or she was cheating on him and he ripped his own picture out and stuffed it down her throat in a dramatic fit of rage before he killed her."

"Stupid. Why would any one do that?" He spat, abruptly stopping in his pacing.

"All is fair in love and war?" He offered, bristling at Sherlock's emphatic scoff. "I don't know! Maybe he's just a really theatrical bastard --maybe she is too and swallowed it for some kind of...I don't know, melodramatic symbolism. Sounds like something _you_ would do, honestly. Regardless, I think you found their motivation!"

" _Wrong_. The locket is made of steel." He said, and John didn't bother to challenge why that mattered.

At some point after they had left the hospital, Sherlock's mood had totally and utterly derailed. The cab ride home was painfully quiet with Sherlock staring out the window - profoundly deep in thought and ignorant of the world moving centrifugal around him. After arriving home, John paid the cab as Sherlock flew inside and began neurotically tearing his science equipment out from whatever closets, drawers and cabinets he kept it in. He spent an hour observing the locket under the microscope, muttering observations and facts under his breath, and scraped a sample of the lockets exterior into a tube of a crystalline-colored acid.

"Tea?" John offered, attempting to quell the hurricane winds of Sherlock's current agitation.

"No." He quipped, then visibly backtracked. "Yes."

"What's wrong with you?" He asked as he filled the kettle, sparing a quick glance at the thundering detective.

"Nothing."

"You were fine this morning." He steamrolled, but when Sherlock only huffed out a condescending snort in response, John turned, braced his hand on the table next to Sherlock, and monopolized his attention with the severity of a soldier. John spoke lowly and clearly: "If you don't calm down, I will call Greg, and I _will_ tell him you took the necklace."

"No you won't." Sherlock laughed, and John steeled himself against the instinctive reflex to punch him square across the face.

"Oh?" He inquired, composure faltering as he knocked the locket out of Sherlock's hand and stepped very emphatically into his personal space. "And why is that, Sherlock?"

"Because you always do what I tell you to do." Sherlock spoke darkly, and John felt the last rafter of his control shatter into finite splinters of itself.

" _I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly --in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty for my own purposes_." John recited in perfect accuracy, feeling a small barb of pleasure as Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "No, Sherlock. I don't always do what you tell me to do."

A painful, tightly-wound moment of suspension coiled and squeezed the air around them before Sherlock swept past him, muttered an angry "I don't have time for this", and slammed the door to the bathroom behind himself. A few seconds later, the shower water could be heard running through the wall, and John cursed quietly to himself as he pulled his coat on and swept out of 221b.

" _Nothing from Sterling Dell, thank God._ " John acknowledged as he scrolled through the series of new texts on his phone that came rolling and tripping over each other after four hours of neglect. A long walk through the cold was usually enough to sober his anger when Sherlock decided to be realistically intolerable, and he had been gone for four hours when he found himself leaning tiredly against the cold brick of a building half a mile from 221b Baker Street.

" _Hey, just wanted to make sure you're alright. Sherlock seemed a bit distraught earlier today?_ " Molly Hooper, sent at 6:58 PM

" _Any updates on SD?_  -- **MH** " Sent at 7:29 PM. Why Mycroft was tempting fate by discussing Sterling Dell on his primary phone was beyond him, but so were many, _many_ things at that moment in time.

" _Where are you?_  -- **SH** " Sent at 7:42 PM

" _John, give me a call when you can._  -- **GL** " Sent at 7:56 PM

" _Hey John, drinks soon? Let me know._ " -- Mike Stamford, sent at 8:41 PM

" _?_  -- **SH** " Sent at 8:59 PM. Good Lord.

" _Hey Johnny, things getting any better? Let me know if you need anymore of the zolpidem. :)_ " -- Sarah Sawyer, sent at 9:16 PM

" _If this is an attempt at being vindictive, l can assure you no one's impressed._  -- **SH** " Sent at 9:54 PM. _Oh. Okay, then, you great sodding arse._

"Jesus." John exhaled, head rolling back into the brick as he dropped his hand to his side and closed his eyes. Tired. He was so inexorably exhausted for so many reasons, and there were things he had to do --so many issues he had to address, so many symptoms of people and life he had to alleviate, secrets to maintain and obstacles to overcome, and time was forever going. Going, going, going on, and he just didn't _know_ anymore. Anything, really. There was so much he didn't know.

A vibrate rattled his hand, and he glanced downward at his phone.

" _I would appreciate it if you told me where you are._  -- **SH** " Sent at 10:17 PM

Sighing, he heaved himself off of the wall and headed home.

**(221b Baker Street)**

Opening the door of 221b, John answered his phone on its third ring with a quick "Hey Greg" as Lestrade's voice greeted him on the other end.

"Hey mate, where the hell are you?"

"Just walked in. Why?" He asked, shutting the door behind him with his right leg.

"Been trying to get in touch with you for three hours. Sherlock said you weren't answering --I don't know, being on the police force you tend to assume the worst sometimes. Just making sure you're not bleeding out in a ditch somewhere. You're alright, then?"

"Yes, just needed some air." John explained, casting Sherlock a nonplussed glance when the detective appeared in the doorway, arms crossed as he leaned sluggishly against the frame. "Yes. No, I know you know. Hah! Yeah, _that'll_ be the day. Let me assure you that won't be an issue. Mm? Oh. I don't know, actually. Mike mentioned something about it too. I'll let you know when we set a time. Okay, bye Greg." John finished, not bothering to spare Sherlock a sympathetic glance as he swept past into the kitchen.

"So you'll answer for _Lestrade_?" Sherlock followed, pronouncing the word as if it left an acrid taste on his tongue.

"I'd have answered for you, too, if you had bothered to call." John offered in exasperation as he fell into a state of semi-automatic function.

Coffee. He needed some goddamned coffee.

"I never call. I shouldn't have to call."

"Well, by that logic, I shouldn't have to answer." John quipped. "Coffee?" He offered before Sherlock could launch anything else. Really, he was quite done with the fire and brimstone for one night.

"Yes." Sherlock answered. "What if Mrs. Hudson had been having a heart attack in the middle of the floor? Would a text message not be enough to engage your interest?"

"Was Mrs. Hudson having a heart attack in the middle of the floor?"

"That's hardly the point." Sherlock replied as John handed him a mug, and he took it thanklessly. "I hope next time, for her sake, that you don't wait through all six degrees of separation before you decide who's important enough to answer."

"For her sake? Or _yours_?" John quipped, though instantly regretting it when Sherlock's mouth parted in slight surprise over the mug.

"For _yours_." He bit sharply after a heavy moment, and John closed his eyes in exasperation when Sherlock sauntered into the living room. Pouring his own cup of coffee, he followed shortly after, though stopping abruptly when he saw Sherlock logging into his e-mail account -- the account with Sterling Dell's first correspondence saved on to it.

Mycroft told him to destroy the computer.

Fucking hell.

"Nope." He spoke rigidly, bristling as Sherlock glanced up furiously when he reached over to press the power button. Intentionally, he strategically placed the mug of coffee beside the computer's hard-drive."Not tonight, Sherlock."

"What the hell are y-" Sherlock began, though stopping as John reached across his lap and grappled for the power cord. Incredulously, Sherlock knocked his hand away, though not before John leaned over him and jerked the cord out of the wall with a hard tug sending sparks bee-lining to the floor.

As John reached to remove the computer from the desk, however, Sherlock shoved him back. With his best acting skills, John knocked his elbow into the coffee mug where it tipped over and poured coffee across the keyboard and onto Sherlock's lap. The screen twitched for a few bleak seconds before collapsing to black, and Sherlock visibly plummeted straight into swirling fury.

He steeled himself as Sherlock stood and swept past him.

"Where are you going?" He called, so unbelievably exhausted with it all.

"Out." Came the livid reply, and John followed after.

" _Sherlock_ \--" He called, gripping the back of the Belstaff and whipping Sherlock around to face him. In that half-second of time, however, Sherlock twisted out of his grasp and pinned him mercilessly to the wall with his forearm; a perfectly maleficent look of disdain in his eyes.

"You are turning my head into a  _hell hole_ , John. Stay out my way." He seethed as he shoved John into the wall with one last thrust of his arm, and slammed the door with enough force to rattle the walls and windows.

Slumping against the wall, John slid quietly to the floor, angry and exhausted, as Mycroft's words eclipsed his mind:

_"If you stay with him and weather the storms of every thing he is and will be over the next year, I can promise that the normalcy you both had will eventually find it's way back to 221b Baker Street."_

_  
_This was Sherlock unbridled, unguarded, unsafe, and dangerously close to caving in on himself. John's stomach rolled at the prospect of where this Sherlock went and what he sought on the nights when his head waged war on his psyche. There were many things that were 'a bit not good' about Sherlock, untethered; but out of them all, this was the side of his personality that posed the most potential for the irreparably devastating consequences. With the slamming of the door, John knew then that over the course of the last six months, he had only ever been in the eye of the hurricane.


	6. The Things I Never Wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Find me here and speak to me. I want to feel you, I need to hear you. You are the light that's leading me to the place  
> where I find peace again. And how can I stand here with you and not be moved by you? Would you tell me --how could it be  
> any better than this?" -- "Everything" by Lifehouse.

" _Sherlock gone. Defenses down, and he's angry. Should I be concerned._ - **JW** " John texted, exhausted, as he waited for a response from Mycroft. His tea sat cool and untouched next to him, and the clock struck eleven against the silence.

Forty-five minutes had passed since Sherlock, scorching the earth with a righteous trail of anger, stormed out of the flat and into the nightlife -- _his_ kind of nightlife, and John wasn't entirely sure what to do in the wake of it all.

" _Most likely. I'll maintain cameras, call Greg Lestrade if he hasn't returned by 3:00. He'll know what to do. Call when he returns._ - **MH** "

" _Should I prepare for the worst?_ - **JW** "

" _Always._ - **MH** "

"Christ." John exhaled as he cupped one hand over his eyes and leaned heavily against the counter with the other. The sheer weight of Sherlock and every thing that came with him was hard enough to carry before the Fall, and things were progressively breaking off and crumbling as it was.

But if he were to be entirely honest with himself, he would acknowledge that there was really no room for any surprise in this. The last six months had been building up to a pivotal moment when something would finally snap, and John figured this night was as good as any for Sherlock to finally unravel with one frenetic surge of white powder through his blood.

It was all bullshit -- _such_ bullshit, John thought; and he was almost pining with the desire to be done with this. Something had to give, and he would be royally _damned_ before he let Sherlock be the one to throw the gasoline and toss the match.

Sherlock was ruining himself. After every thing, he was insisting on incinerating their second chance out of reckless abandon, and John was tired.

So, _so_ tired.

Another thirty-six minutes of silent hell passed before John, fatigued and intolerably ready to shut it all down, decided that Sherlock Holmes had been allowed to take things far enough.

" _If Sherlock asks, tell him I'm out with you and won't be back until late tonight_. -- **JW"** He typed.

" _Why? Something wrong?_ \-- **GL** "

" _Yes, but I'm fixing it. Can you do this for me._ \-- **JW** "

" _Alright, but only if you let me know if things get bad._ \-- **GL** "

Bracing both elbows on the table, John began to compose a new message.

" _Going out with Lestrade to clear my head. I know you're angry, and you're allowed to be. Can you at least tell me where you are?_ \-- **JW** "

Fifteen minutes passed without a response, and John cursed quietly when his heart began to beat fast enough to pulse a slow rhythm in his ears. A car horn blared outside and the clock ticked on despite it all.

" _If you're not going to answer, I'm taking it to mean that I can ignore any of your texts from here on out._ \-- **JW** "

" _I went back to Moxley and Shelley crime scene. Don't wait for me._ \-- **SH** " Came the response, and John's suspicions were confirmed along with it.

" _Fine. I won't be back until later, probably around 2 or 3. Don't do anything stupid._ - **JW** "

A response was never returned, and John crumpled heavily into the couch to begin what would probably end up ranking as one of the most intolerable waits of his life. The clock chimed midnight antagonistically, and he wavered shallowly between another cup of tea and checking the blog on Sherlock's computer to respond to any new comments. He tapped his fingers impatiently against the counter, and glacial minutes turned into an hour when his phone vibrated on the table.

He was out of the chair before he knew it.

" _Sherlock just texted to ask if you were with me --told him you were, but I'm starting to think against my better judgement. What's going on?_ \-- **GL** "

A response went unmade, however, when a slosh of keys jingled in the lock and the front door whirred open. John stuffed the phone back in his pocket and stood, statuesque with his arms crossed, as Sherlock came sweeping into the kitchen with a whir of his coat; all radiations of manic energy and vibrating entropy.

"Evening." Came John's humourless greeting, and Sherlock's head snapped upwards with a bounce of black curls. His eyes flashed wildly silver, and with one look at his radically blown pupils and trembling hands, John huffed out a short, frustrated laugh.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, surprise quickly plummeting into irritation as he pulled his gloves off and dropped them onto the counter. Ignoring, John strode forward, snatched Sherlock's arm and wrenched the coat sleeve upward.

"I  _knew_ it." John spat, ignoring the question to diagnose the angry, purple-red track mark in the crease of his arm. Affronted, Sherlock tore his arm back, and John's hand flew to massage the headache under his temples. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock. I fucking _knew_ \--"

"How did you know?" Sherlock interrupted, eyes fever-bright and blown as his hands shook visibly. The curls on the nape of his neck and forehead lay plastered against the beading sweat, and he appeared to be teetering one misstep away from bursting into blue fire. "How--"

"What are you trying to do!" John then nearly screeched, gesturing explicitly to Sherlock's arm. "Fucking hell, Sherlock! If you wanted to kill yourself, you should've just--"

"How the hell did you know, John?" Sherlock reiterated as his tone rose several notches in volume and annoyance.

"How did I know? Because I know _you_ , Sherlock!" He barked with an accusing finger aimed at the detective. "Next time, just ask _me_ to sell you the fucking cocaine! It'll save us both the time, considering how spectacularly _awful_ you were at hiding this."

" _Tell me. How. You knew_." Sherlock ordered nefariously, and John could only stare open-mouthed in disbelief at the sheer fucking indifference.

"I knew you weren't going to their crime scene because you're marginally poised when on a case, and you've been a regular _train-wreck_ since we left the hospital this morning. So when you text me about a crime scene that I already know you're not going to, the only alternative I have left is to assume that you're doing something stupid enough that you feel you need to lie about it." John rattled off, and Sherlock watched his every gesture like a circling hawk over prey. "I told Greg to tell you I was out with him if you asked where I was, and you did --mistake number one. I knew you would come back if you thought I wasn't here, because that's what you _do_ when you fall to shit --mistake number two. Cocaine is your drug of choice, and the effects only last thirty minutes; so _bravo_ on trying to pick the easiest high to cover, but I knew if I waited here I could catch you in the lie anyway." He turned away. "Hell, if the dilated pupils, tremors and sweat aren't any indication, then the track mark might as well be a fucking _neon sign_." He spat, and he was already moving in for the K.O. "Nice try, Sherlock, but wrong. You got it _wrong_. You can't hide things from people who already know where to _look_." John seethed, and he felt his heart beat wildly in his chest as a pregnant silence crackled off between them.

For a bizarre moment, John stilled in furious curiosity as Sherlock slowly reached inside his coat, pulled a small bag of white powder out from the pocket, and tossed it quietly onto the table. Never even considering to tear his gaze away from John, he then reached inside to pull out the glass syringe that accompanied the bag. He tossed it on to the table where it landed with a clink and rolled off the side, clattering gracelessly to the floor at his feet.

John steeled himself as Sherlock, appearing still-born, crazed, and utterly horrified, stepped forward and regarded John as if he were the most bewildering case he had ever encountered.

"The science of deduction." He said as though it were a soul-saving prayer, and John opened his mouth to reply when Sherlock leaned down and kissed him emphatically on the mouth.

Rendered paralyzed in thought and movement, John felt the soft, Botticelli lips pull back fractionally to grace hot, feather-light touches against his for an incredibly fragile and immoral stretch of time. Hot puffs of air swirled around his mouth in short bursts, and John scrambled to grasp for some chokehold.

"Sher-" He began drunkenly, but was abruptly cut off as Sherlock dove back in; this time opting to move his mouth fluidly and surely against his own. A tongue ran lightly across his bottom lip, and at some point in the thirty seconds following, John's mouth was entirely full with Sherlock's tongue; roaming and sliding and appearing to try and devour John in the only way he knew how.

He was going. Going, going, going --and Sherlock was already gone.

And then John felt himself backed flat against the wall, and painfully-cold hands clutched desperately to both sides of his head as the kissing deviated from soft-intentioned exploration into faster, escalating licks and bites. The stitches of John's control were quickly popping off at the seams, and Sherlock was one nanosecond from going absolutely supernova in his attempt to kiss John through the wall using sheer force of will.

And like the final collapse of a quaking dam, John was suddenly flooded with the reality of the situation, and he shoved Sherlock in the chest with both hands and stumbled to the side; chest heaving and lips burning.

For a suspended moment, they could only breathe in labored tandem as John caught sight of Sherlock's swollen mouth parting in surprise before he closed it, swallowed heavily, and screwed his eyes shut. It had only taken a little bit longer, but the ice-water of reality had finally drenched Sherlock's coke-high with the subtlety of a frosted hurricane, and he was coming down hard.

"John--" He began with a minute shake of his head, but John was already swiping his keys off of the table and flying out the front door.

**(Sarah's House - 1:51 AM)**

"John?" Sarah asked nervously as she tied her robe sash around her waist and stepped into the cold night air. Turning the porch light on, she found John; fingers flexing against the cold and looking utterly wrecked.

"I'm not--" He broke off then, cleared his throat, and looked to the ground. "I'm probably not...alright."

"I see." She mused quietly while cataloging the absolutely devastated countenance of the man in front of her. This man cared deeply, unapologetically, and almost incomprehensibly for Sherlock Holmes; and that was really all she needed to know.

Turmoil, coupled with spontaneous 2:00 AM knocks on the door, never warranted an explanation from anyone who chose to care about Sherlock Holmes.

"Yeah, you're staying here tonight." She ordered as she held the door for him and stepped inside.

John didn't protest.

2:00 AM found him on the sofa as Sarah handed him a cup of coffee and sat unassumingly next to him.

"Do you...want to talk about it?" She tried dubiously after a few minutes. He brought the cup down from his mouth, and his fingertips were red and chapped from the glacial night air.

"I don't think I can." He explained on a frustrated laugh. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to--"

"Is it about Sherlock?" She ventured, trying to reel him down from the mania and anchor him to an area closer to home and objectivity. "What am I saying --of course it is. Do you want to tell me what happened?"

"We--" He stopped, mouth thinning into a white line. "He's changed every thing. I don't know if we'll ever...he's changed." He finished, desperately trying to will away the flaming trails of thought that screamed obscenities through his skull.

"Did he kill someone?" She ventured warily, and John would laugh at the sincerity behind the question if he weren't drowning in his own mistake.

"No. That would be a blessing compared to this." He laughed nervously. Miserably.

"Did he hurt anyone?"

"Other than himself, no." John offered. "He just...changed everything."

Sherlock, high as hell and twice as inflammatory, _kissed_ him --kissed him as if he was the only source of oxygen in the throes of a flood. He kissed him like wind and fire and light and energy all rolled into one; kissed him as though his life damn near _depended_ on it for survival. He kissed John as if John knew the answer to every detail of every mystery that he never solved, and the only way to get to the answers was to devour and absorb every breath that escaped his mouth.

Sherlock kissed John like he loved him, and John kissed back as if it were true.

And that was the single most terrifying thing John had ever come to know.

"I would think so." Sarah commented, and John's head snapped up to meet hers after the break of his reverie. "I mean, you can't jump off a building and traverse the perils of earth for three years and come back the same person. I though you were expecting change?"

"This is a big change, Sarah. This could destroy us." He commented. "And if not him, then definitely me."

"Even more than his death did?" She challenged quietly, and a heavy silence crashed when anything John would have said dissolved into scattering particles at such a question.

After a short minute, she inhaled sharply, placed her cup on the coffee table, and leaned towards him. "Now, maybe I'm just an idealist, but I would think a 'change' in the dynamics could never be worse than standing at his grave and having to admit after it was too late that you would willingly endure any change if it meant he could still be alive." She explained somewhat sadly, and John concentrated his attention to a photograph of she and her estranged father on the wall.

She had made passing comments about him before, never once neglecting to be honest about the fact that they had always had a bad relationship that never manged to reconcile itself before his death at sixty years old. The last time she spoke to her father was when she was twenty-two, and she was twenty-eight when he died of a heart attack.

She was twenty-eight, and she was also bitter. She was speaking through personal experience with this one.

"I'm not sure either of us can overcome the damage." John remarked. "I thought I could, but it seems too big. Too much."

"So many people, John, realize far too late that the issues they thought they could never overcome with their loved one's were actually trivial in the grand scheme of things. The things that seemed so huge ended up being _nothing_ \-- absolutely _nothing_ when they were faced with the prospect of never being able to see that person again." She tapered off, eyes glancing to the floor. "I'm one of them, and I can't tell you how badly I wish I could go back and-"

"Sarah." He spoke, sadly, as her eyes welled and her mouth screwed shut "I'm sorry. Wow, I'm...I'm a bastard. Jesus, please don't cry."

"No, it's fine." She swallowed roughly, replacing the lapse of composure with a weak laugh. "All I'm saying is that you have been given an utterly _sacred_ second chance that nobody else gets, and I'm not above begging you to fight for reconciliation in the way that I didn't. Will you promise me that you'll just try?"

"Of course. I didn't think-" He stopped, then spoke again. "I didn't think about it that way. I didn't know, I-"

"Then get out of here, John." She laughed. "Go and tell that sociopath that you don't care how much of a dick he is, because you want to make things right --and if not right, then better."

"I-"

He broke off, however, when Mycroft's alternate phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced down to find Sterling Dell's number flashing across the screen.

" _Friday at Midnight? Re-confirm within the hour, or sniper will shoot SH immediately._ "

And for the first time in three years, six months, nine days, two hours, and forty-four minutes, John stopped being angry at Sherlock, and started being angry _for_ him.

" _Confirmed_. - **JW** " He sent back as he kissed Sarah on the cheek, barreled out the front door, and hailed the first cab he could find.

**(Baker Street)**

Walking quietly into the flat, John shut the door with a soft click and crept noiselessly to the kitchen. He leaned heavily against the doorframe, arms crossed and frowning, at the sight of Sherlock unwrapping a tourniquet from his bare forearm. With trembling fingers, he maneuvered the syringe out of his arm with a furrowed brow, and a soft hiss of pain escaped as he placed it on the table and held a thumb over the bead of blood. Leaning his sweat-dampened head back against the wall, he closed his eyes and willingly lost himself to the fantasia of the high.

"All of this." John spoke sadly as his previous anger, injured by a very real developing heartache, clawed its way up his throat. Sherlock's eyes snapped open, but he didn't remove his head or body from their sluggish hold against the wall. "For a thirty minute high, all of... _this_." He gestured towards Sherlock as though he were the twisted and smoking remains of a car wreck on the street.

"Yes." Sherlock whispered, eyes closed, and John nearly winced at the sight of him. 

" _Why_ , Sherlock? If you can't say anything else, can you just tell me _why_?" He almost begged, and Sherlock heaved himself from the wall and sauntered wordlessly to the sink. John followed his movements as he placed the contaminated syringe and crack-spoon next to the sink and poured soap into a steaming pot of water. "I want to understand, Sherlock, but I won't be able to if you don't tell me _why_ \--"

"You already know why!" He bellowed, and John remained unaffected against the outburst as Sherlock flung the utensils into the sink with a splash and rounded on him. His eyes were wild and re-dilating with part high and part fury. "You count the scars at every possible opportunity, and you force-feed me the narcotics faster than the regular food. Hell John, you let me _crawl into bed_ with you to distract me from the 'demons', and you wait ever-ready for the day when I just pass out from the sheer weight of it all." He rattled off as he bent low in front of John and berated him with a sub-arctic glare. "So you can ask _why_ , John, but since you already know, then the only question you should be asking is  _why not_."

"Because it's not a permanent solution." John quipped, voice rising as Sherlock scoffed and swept past him. "No!" He barked, and he was already jerking him back into the kitchen. "I'm done, Sherlock. I'm _done_. We're going to talk about this, right now, and you're going to tell me what has to be done to get you out of this."

"Stay out of my way, John." He threatened as he wrenched his arm away, only to have John shove him into the frame of the door and pin him there with a military strength. Sherlock very nearly snarled. "I won't be held responsible for what I'm capable of doing to you while high."

"I don't know your personal hell, but if you'll remember correctly, I do have some idea of how it feels to have to come home to a life that isn't working like it used to."

"Afghanistan could have never _hoped_ to give you the kind of hell that I was given." Sherlock laughed darkly. John was already moving in for the kill with a hard punch straight across his face, because Sherlock was suggesting that he was _forced_ to go it alone, _forced_ to do it all by himself.

Stumbling backwards, Sherlock shoved John harshly on the chest where he hit the wall with a sickening crack of his head. Before he could recover, Sherlock had already bracketed both of his hands on the side of John's head to knee him mercilessly in the stomach; sending him doubling over in pain and gasping for breath. Arms wrapped around his middle, John acknowledged the accelerated stamina of a cocaine high and decided his best move would be to get Sherlock immobilized and on the floor. Stumbling forward, he wrapped one leg around Sherlock's ankle and shoved him down so that he tripped forward and hit the floor with a slam.

John was already on top and wrestling him into the floorboards before a word could be said in protest.

"I wasn't talking about coming home from Afghanistan, I was talking about coming home from your funeral!" He barked. Sherlock's attacks then waned non-committal, and he peered up at John as the shorter man pinned him into the ground with a forearm across his chest. "My disagreement over your suicide be damned at this point, because I got a second chance that nobody else gets. So brace yourself, Sherlock, because I will make your life a living _hell_ until you try to be better."

"I will never be a good person, John." 

"I don't want you to be good; I want you to be _better_." John quipped darkly, and Sherlock's head fell down against the floor with an irritated thud. "The fact you endured three years of hell on earth to get back to this flat means that you valued enough of your life before the suicide to come back at all. So feel free to bitch at me, bully me, hurt me, shut me out and hide from me --it won't fucking _matter_ if you do, because I am unwilling to let you go a second time." John snapped as he shoved off of Sherlock's chest, stood up, and walked to the sink.

Snatching the glass syringe out of the soapy water, he grasped the needle-end of the tube and slammed the body against the side of the sink where it shattered to pieces. Wrenching the cabinet door open, he then grasped for the bottle of sleeping pills and hastily shook two of them into his hand before crouching back down next to Sherlock.

"I'll beat the shit out of you every night if that's what it takes." John remarked as he extended the pills downward between two fingers. "So I suggest you take these gracefully, because the 'being better' starts _now_."

When Sherlock merely observed him with some kind of resigned apathy, John flicked his eyes to the front door and visibly deflated.

"Sherlock, If you don't..." He began a little too vulnerably, voice cracking on the end as Sherlock's furrowed brow released itself into a more insecure scrutiny. "If things don't change," He started, and Sherlock was already running rigid next to him. "I'm going to leave."

"John."

"No. I can't--" He tried, huffing out an exhausted breath of air. "No one should have to watch this happen to someone in front of them. I won't do it again. I left Harry, and I can leave you. So if you can't take these right now, I'll leave you here as you are, and I won't come back." He finished quietly, firm voice betraying the rolling sickness and heartache.

Angry and somewhat blindsided, Sherlock grasped the pills from his fingers and dropped them into his mouth, crumbling them noisily between his molars and swallowing them down dry.

"I'm not going to throw the cocaine away." John remarked as his voice quelled into a tired sobriety. "You are, when you decide to be better."

And with that parting sentiment, John stepped quietly over Sherlock, turned the light off, and retreated to his bedroom.

**(One Hour Later - 3:48 AM)**

His eyelids pried themselves open with the creak of his bedroom door opening, and John was wholly immune and unsurprised to find Sherlock standing before him again. Not bothering to inquire or comment, he opted simply to shift over and roll to the side as the bed dipped with the presence of a second body.

He closed his eyes and fell asleep almost instantaneously.

**(Two Hours Later - 5:56 AM)**

He looked over his shoulder, awakened again by the pained moans and restless jerking of the body next to him. He rolled onto his back and watched Sherlock, twitching and internally struggling, as he fell prey to another nightmare. His eyes flicked downwards as Sherlock's hand jerked between them, and his brows furrowed and unfurrowed against whatever phantom pain he was drowning in.

This man's _mind_.

"Sherlock." He whispered in defeat, opting to maintain a careful distance after the previous attempt to wake him from a nightmare. Sherlock huffed a sharp breath of air through his nose and winced. " _Sherlock._ "

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and landed wordlessly on the ceiling. There was no rebound of self-defense this time. There were no theatrics, there were no apologies, there weren't even words spoken in damage control. Sherlock glanced over at him once, then threw his arm over his eyes and spent the next five minutes attempting to regulate his shaking breaths.

And for a while, John lay beside him and soundlessly coached him through it.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" He tried.

"No."

After fifteen minutes of trying to re-establish his reality, Sherlock's breathing finally evened into something functional, and John could only stare at him in a painful and entirely understanding empathy.

"They always end, Sherlock." He whispered as sleep pulled him under. "They always will."

"Help me forget." Sherlock then spoke, and John's eyes snapped fractionally open to find Sherlock's face still buried in the crook of his arm. His eyes darted between his arm and his mouth in an attempt to garner some kind of explanation.

"How." He offered, exhausted.

"You already know." Sherlock said dejectedly, and John felt a surge of terror run up his spine.

"Sherlock--" He exhaled in disapproval.

"I wouldn't ask if I thought you'd disagree." He followed-up in defense, and John knew then that Sherlock Holmes, who never needed this from any one --who was 'married to his work' and generally unimpressed with most of humanity and it's obsession with love and sex, would only ask for this if his mind was so intolerable that he needed to seek a sensory overload just to topple it. Sherlock didn't tolerate"lust", but he did tolerate stimulation --and this was likely the most concentrated sensory input he would ever be able to receive at one time.

"It will change things." John said despondently.

"Yes." Came the frustrated reply. When John visibly faltered, Sherlock steamrolled on: "We would have ended up here eventually, John. And you know it." Sherlock said it miserably as though he had done every thing in his power to stop it from happening --as if he had gloriously failed somewhere along the way in preventing it from coming to pass, and could only accept it now out of sheer, God-awful force. "Please." He muttered, voice cracking on the end.

And then John let go.

"Alright, Sherlock." He said as he braced himself on an elbow and reached to pull Sherlock's arm off of his face. "Alright, just--"

Before he could continue, however, the arm that he pulled was suddenly circling around his back as Sherlock rolled on top of him and kissed him forlornly into the mattress.

Yes, this was a long...long time coming.

Sherlock's tongue was lapping through his mouth as if it had never known anything different, and John responded in kind with a heated and almost painful desire to taste and know every thing about the man on top of him --as if this was something that he had always desired with every fiber of his being. John's hands slid up and down the length of his torso, stopping only to memorize and feel the different topographies in his bones and muscles.

John then hissed when Sherlock bit his mouth, but the response only seemed to ignite Sherlock further as he carded his hands through John's hair and grasped at the longer locks on the nape of his neck. Sliding his hands down down his shoulders and over his collar bone, he placed them on John's sides and steadied him firmly into the bed. Liberated, John slid his hands up under the bottom of Sherlock's shirt, and the detective briefly sat up to pull it over his head, toss it on the floor, and fall back into his desperate assault on John's mouth.

John welcomed the expanse of hot skin permeating warmth on top of him, and he ran his hands up and down his torso, taking special attention to stop and massage his thumbs over the small, pink nipples. Upon doing so, Sherlock broke off of his mouth with a wet smack and frantically kissed the side of his mouth and down his neck as if he had a few mere seconds to taste all of John that he physically could.

John audibly groaned as Sherlock began to suck and bite an angry red mark into the side of his neck, just above his collar-bone.

"It'll show." John rasped deliriously. "Every one will kn-"

"Good." Sherlock interrupted as he nipped at the inflamed spot one last time before gently lapping the pain away. He was well into the process of kissing his way back up when John, feeling bold, hooked his ankle around Sherlock's and flipped them over --reversing their positions. John straddled Sherlock's hips, not failing to catch the detective's eyes widening momentarily in surprise as the curls splayed over the pillow.

"You can't have it all." John remarked with a smirk, and Sherlock utterly crumbled to pieces as he grasped the back of John's head and wrenched him down into a scorching kiss.

" _John._ " He muttered in irritation as John broke off and sat up. He watched, predatory and feline, as John pulled his shirt over his head and lay back down. An audible groan escaped Sherlock's mouth at the presence of the skin-on-skin heat, and John shifted lower onto Sherlock's hips to suck and bite the soft flesh under his chin.

"If I have one, then you have to have one." John explained somewhat breathlessly as he worked his teeth and tongue into the same spot that Sherlock had branded into him. John lapped at the mark as Sherlock's hands ran absently over his scalp and down over his ribs, where they settled comfortably on the jut of his hip-bones.

John kissed his way down and left small nips and bites in the pale flesh until his mouth hovered over a nipple. He glanced up at Sherlock and found him watching him, half-lidded and beyond overwhelmed. Diving slowly, he placed his mouth over the nipple and sucked mercilessly running his tongue over and across. And then Sherlock's hands were fisting the hair at the base of his skull, and a clipped moan accented the silence as John continued to work his mouth over the nipple. Popping off with a smack, he swept to the next one and swallowed it whole, only to have Sherlock roll them back over and slam down against John with a kind of kissing that was starving and nearly painful in it's desperation to just _take_.

Sherlock very well wanted to get _inside_ \--wanted to swallow John whole, or drink him down and have him shoot through his blood like the cocaine.

"Sher-" He started, only to have Sherlock dive in for another kiss. " _Sherlock._ " He finally managed as he wrenched his head to the side, and Sherlock glared down at him in righteous fury. John ran a hand through the curls above his left ear and found himself frowning. "If this is what you need to keep you grounded --to keep you from going to that place and those memories, then I'll be this for you. I'll be this for you every time if you just _try_ to be better."

A flash of vulnerability crossed Sherlock's face, and he leaned in to kiss John once with a staggering fragility.

"When you said you would leave--" He broke off to kiss John softly a second time. After a third delicate nip to John's bottom lip, Sherlock hovered his mouth over John's, sending small puffs of heat over his mouth and nose. "You've never said something so unattractive."

"You've never _done_ something so unattractive." John responded as he placed his thumb over the track mark and glanced up at him in severe disapproval. Sherlock's mouth thinned into a line, and John blinked once as Sherlock dropped his forehead against his and breathed --just breathed.

"I never wanted this, John."  He whispered miserably. "Not with anyone, but especially not for us. So if you tried to leave after this, I don't know that I could allow it."

"Then be better." John offered as he massaged the inky curls on the side of his head. Going utterly boneless with his touch, Sherlock lay down on top of him.

With his hand in Sherlock's hair and Sherlock's arm draped over his chest, they fell asleep against the rise of the sun.


	7. Coming Down, Down, Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nothing goes as planned, everything will break. People say goodbye in their own special way. All that you rely on and all that you can fake will leave you in the morning, but find you in the day. Oh, you're in my veins, and I cannot get you out. Oh, you're all I taste at night inside of my mouth. Oh, you run away because I am not what you found. Oh, you're in my veins and I cannot get you out." -- Andrew Belle, "In My Veins"

"So about last night." John began as he awkwardly cleared his throat and stopped in the entrance to the kitchen. Sherlock was in the process of scrolling through a website of what appeared to be a company for industrial metals, and John was in the process of scrolling through a regular cesspool of mixed feelings and "shouldn't have's."

"What about it." He asked boredly, head resting in his hand as the other clicked listlessly through a slide show of pictures.

"No...lingering awkwardness?" He asked, turning to distract himself with something monotonous next to the sink. "Or --I don't know, any...residual regret?"

"Should I feel that way." Came the bored inquiry, and John briefly glanced upwards at the back of Sherlock's inky-curled head.

"Well. No." He offered.

"Then I won't."

"Right." John commented to himself in utter relief as he turned to open the refrigerator. "Glad that's cleared up."

It had been a one-time thing. It had been a one-time thing, and it would stay a one-time thing --a one-time thing that happened to be immorally satisfying, yes, but a one-time thing nonetheless; and it in no way deserved any more attention or explanation than that. John was just as happy to live life from that point on without ever acknowledging that Sherlock had been writhing under him the night before.

" _Jesus._ " He hissed as he clumsily toppled several bottles of medication out of the cabinet upon remembrance of Sherlock's swollen red lips against his own.

"I believe He died quite some years ago." Sherlock followed in response, and John thanked the gods that there were some things Sherlock Holmes couldn't see.

"Yes, I--" He stopped, however, upon turning to the sink and finding a white powder-ring dried around the drain. There was a plate next to Sherlock with a few toast crumbs scattered across, and the syringe was missing from the floor. In slight disbelief, he glanced up at Sherlock who continued to sit unaffected by the sheer depth of how much had changed from this time two weeks ago.

Unapologetically, he allowed the smile as his phone vibrated in his pocket.

" _John , could you possibly take a shift this morning? We had a call-in._ \-- **Sarah** "

" _Yes._ \-- **JW** " He typed back.

"I'm going to the clinic." John commented as he tucked the phone back in his pocket. He glanced up at Sherlock to find him half-swiveled in the chair and peering at him in slight offense. "Oh Christ, what is it now?" He asked on an eye-roll.

"One of these days, you're going to be here when I need you." Sherlock muttered as he stood up and walked to the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, did I not just solve a case for you?" He asked as he dropped the cup of coffee from his mouth and placed it on the table. "With the locket. I discovered that. If it weren't for me, you would still be manhandling her body for some phantom clue. That, or they'd likely have sectioned you by now." He waived.

"That case isn't solved, and your 'discovery' was entirely coincidental --if you haven't already conveniently 'forgotten' your insistence that there was no more information to be found on her body."

"Huh. So losing your touch, are you?" He smirked. "You missed something, Sherlock. And I found it. " He chided as the forming smile was covered by the cup he placed to his mouth. " _I_ found it. John Watson found it."

"Every one get's it right sometimes." He patronized. "The difference being that every clue I find is found intentionally, whereas you stumble oafishly onto something helpful every now and then."

"Well I like peach jam with the pulp in it." John offered, face held blank as Sherlock's expression screwed into confusion.

"I beg your pardon?" He asked, eyes narrowing.

"Oh. Sorry, I thought we were talking about shit that doesn't matter." Came the comeback, and John smirked as Sherlock's lips parted in attempt of a response, but closed when it never came. "Something wrong, Sherlock? Locket in your throat?" He challenged.

A cocktail of something indignant and affronted crossed his features as he abruptly plucked the coffee out of John's hands, dumped it into the sink, and muttered an insincere "whoops" as he dropped it with a loud "clang." Stepping forward, he cocked his head slightly, and John quickly stepped backwards when Sherlock leaned down.

John held one hand defensively in front of himself, and Sherlock's eyes closed in what appeared to be both frustration at being denied, and self-disgust for being interested in the first place. He shook his head minutely, obviously in the throes of an inward conversation with himself.

"Last night. What we were. Are we still that?" John asked, utterly serious and devoid of humour, because he wasn't in the habit of laughing when the joke was on him. "One time, is what I thought. I thought--"

"I'm sure you thought wrong." Sherlock interrupted, and John's eyes flicked warily from his mouth to his eyes when Sherlock held him with a radiating glare. Slowly, he leaned down again, and this time John didn't resist the fell swoop. Thoughts stumbling over themselves, he was pressed gently against the counter as Sherlock lapped languidly through his mouth.

There was no desperation in this. There was no starvation or greed or carelessness as was evident in the heat of the night before. With this, there was only the false pretense from John that this was something that they'd always done, and the barely-humbled insistence from Sherlock that it was something they should always do.

He felt a surge of heat shoot straight to his groin when Sherlock hummed a contented noise into his mouth, and he understood and made peace with the fact that whether or not they should do this, it's likely what they would do.

This was a new facet they would incorporate into their partnership, and they would never utter a single word about it.

"Is this the new cocaine?" John breathed into Sherlock's mouth.

"Yes." Came the breathless reply, and John bristled at the seriousness with which he said it.

"Are we joking about your drug addiction?" John rasped as Sherlock's glacial hands unconsciously found their way to his hips. "Jesus, that is a bit --not good."

"Love keeps no record of wrongs." Sherlock recited into his mouth like an attempted prayer from a religionless soul. "Or something."

"You don't love me, Sherlock." He grinned against the kiss, causing Sherlock's teeth to clash into his.

"But you love me."

"Nope." He laughed as he broke away from the assault, only to have Sherlock abort his mouth and duck into the crook of his neck to nip lightly into the flesh. John dazedly glanced at the calendar on the wall to find that tomorrow was Friday, and the thrill of this chase was suddenly stripped of its allure with the omen that had thundered over him since the conversation with Mycroft in his car. Coming down from the high, he arched his neck away from Sherlock and placed a hand on his shoulder. "From now on, I'm leaving the gun here with you."

"Wrong." He mouthed into the flesh under his jaw. The curls tickled John's neck, and he had never in his life met someone who felt so utterly entitled --so comfortable with giving and taking, taking, taking at their soul leisure alone.

"What would be right?"

"I'm not going to entertain you."

"You're doing a fine job of it now." He chided, and after a few considering seconds, Sherlock began mouthing a small, unassuming wet spot through the sleeve of his shoulder. John carefully placed his own hands on Sherlock's hips, and Sherlock kissed his way back up his neck, leaving one sharp bite on the corner of his jaw.

When Sherlock's hands grazed up his sides with an accidental flick of his thumb over a nipple, John quietly moaned despite himself and slumped forward. It must have triggered something slightly feral, because Sherlock invaded him until he had him lying with his back completely on the counter. Pinning his hands into the surface, Sherlock sucked the breath straight out of his throat and lay over him, stomach-to-stomach. A few inky curls cradled his face with the constantly changing angles of Sherlock's mouth.

"I need to --go." John attempted as Sherlock eagerly consumed his words. "People could die."

"People die all the time, John." He replied breathlessly as he smacked his mouth off of John's and back on again. "The world's a terrible place."

"Even now?" He asked, smiling, though not failing to catch Sherlock's enthusiasm entirely deflate as he slumped forward and lay his forehead defeatedly against John's.

"Even now." He said, voice cello-esque and deep, and John had never seen him so comfortable with his vulnerability. His eyelids fluttered shut leaving the gray, feathered sprigs of lashes against his cheeks, and John knew that the pretense had been shattered for now. He was coming down, down, down -- down like someone always did when their entire existence deviated only between extreme highs and crippling lows.

"It will get better." He offered as he placed his hands on Sherlock's chest and gently pushed him off to hold the detective's eye contact.

"Why _should_ it." He asked, voice tinged with a trace of frustration and cynicism.

"Because you'll be better." He smiled, and Sherlock's face crumpled in disapproval at such a wholesome thought.

With that, Sherlock leaned in for one impossibly fragile press of his lips against John's --not even a kiss, really, but rather the ghost of a touch prologuing the ghost of a confession. And John knew this would be one of those critically ill moments that they would neither speak of nor acknowledge again.

"Lately I've been...not good." He spoke darkly against John's lips.

"I won't blame you, but I will hold you accountable." John replied empathetically, and Sherlock dropped his forehead to rest on his shoulder.

Against his better judgement, John brought one hand up to the raven mass of hair and began massaging gently over his scalp and through the curls. With a slightly miserable grunt, Sherlock leaned bonelessly against him and curled unconsciously into the touch. They did this for a few quiet minutes, and John acknowledged that if Sherlock were any more feline than he already was, he would likely start purring against his shoulder.

In all his life, John had never known that Sherlock could be capable of this kind of defenselessness.

"What you're doing." Sherlock mumbled sleepily. "Do --more of it."

"Maybe. But later." John replied as he stepped around Sherlock, leaving him slightly dazed and annoyed on his feet. "Don't do anything dangerous until I get back."

Sherlock merely cut his eyes in response as he reached for the locket and began scraping its silver powder exterior onto a glass slide.

Quietly, John untucked the Browning from the back of his trousers and placed it softly on to the coffee table before slipping out through the front door.

**(Eight Hours Later - The Clinic)**

"So how is he?" Came a soft female voice, and John glanced up from his paperwork to find Sarah leaning against the doorway with a file of papers tucked under her arm. She smiled softly as she tapped a pencil against her mouth, and John felt a very real affection for this woman standing before him.

He always had.

After eight hours of paranoid patients with a long list of imagined illnesses and phantom life-threatening ailments, it was always nice to have a soft place to fall at the end of the day. Sarah was that place in many ways.

If things had been different-- if he had been different, they might have been something...good.

"He's...better." He offered dubiously, and she heaved herself off of the frame to walk fully into the room.

"How's he responding to the Zolpidem?"

"Like a child, but he's taking it. Seems to be working, too." John grinned. "Thanks, by the way. He...hell, I needed that."

"I figured. You were a sight worse than he, I think." She smiled, and when he opened his mouth to respond, he was cut off by his phone vibrating wildly on the desk.

" _sos_ \-- **SH** " Came the text, and John suddenly felt a white-wash of glacier water pour over him.

It wasn't so much the content of the message that alarmed him, but rather the misspelling. "SOS" for Sherlock was usually based on something less fatal and a little more bitchy and impatient. He was a royally pedantic bastard in all things relating to the structure of the English language, so only a legitimate crisis could prompt him to scribble out a crude message like this.

And then he saw the glossy profile of Sterling Dell as well as the men moving boxes into the flat across the street, and suddenly John was seeing red. If Sterling Dell or his damned sniper had deviated from their own plan, they wouldn't stand a chance in hell of coming out of it alive.

"What's wrong?" She asked as her brow furrowed and her smile diluted into a thin line.

"It's Sherlock. He's--" He stopped, distracted, as he shoved the phone back into his pocket. "I have to go, Sarah. It's an emergency." He said quickly as he began scrambling his belongings into his arms and pulling his coat on. "I'm so sorry about this, but something's wrong."

"Of course." She said, disconcerted, as John flew past her and out the door. "Tell me--"

Her reply went unheard with the slamming of the door, and she sighed heavily, turned out the light and shut the door to his office.

**(221B )**

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked as held Mrs. Hudson's forearms when she walked out of the front door.

"I don't know, dear, I just got back. Haven't had a chance to--" Her anxious reply was cut in half as John swept past her and barreled into the flat. Taking the steps two at a time, his blood began racing when he heard the muffled sounds of clattered banging coming through the walls and shaking the windows. Turning on his heels, he slid into the living room to find Sherlock ducking as a chair shattered violently above his head and splintered when it hit the wall. Shards of wood ricocheted every where, and John caught sight of several nasty-looking holes punctured into the walls with glass shards skidding across the floor.

Jogging forward, he abruptly halted upon sight of a stocky man with a gray beard violently tearing at every available object in the flat to hurdle at Sherlock, who was currently bleeding profusely from a blackened gash in his forehead. A few black curls were plastered in the blood, and it was dribbling down beside his nose and over his lips where it permeated the collar of his Aubergine shirt. John was reminded of crimson poppies breaking through snow, and it was dangerously close to matching Sherlock's face when he was lying on a road and being rolled lifeless out of a puddle of his own blood by total strangers.

And then John decided that he was quite ready and willing to destroy something.

"You don't seem to understand the severity of your situation, Holmes." The man barked as he and Sherlock oscillated with each other on opposite ends of the room. The intruder's back was facing John, thus impeding his view of the man's face. With a tiny flick of his chin upward, John caught Sherlock's attention long enough to ensure that he had seen him while simultaneously demanding him not to make his presence known.

Holding his hand out at Sherlock in a gesture to stand down, John flicked his eyes to the gun on the coffee table and pointed back at himself. Sherlock gave a quick nod of his head before the tea-kettle exploded beside his head, and John thanked God in that moment that they had both reached the point of understanding each other through body language.

Pressed against the wall with his chest heaving, Sherlock tore his gaze from John and dropped to the floor when the intruder lunged forward and slammed an axe into the wall above his head. A few powder trails from the impact fell into his hair, and John stepped forward then, resisting the urge to jump the man from the back.

With one quick nod at John, Sherlock glared at the man from the floor before standing up and kicking him straight in the ribs. The man doubled over in pain, and Sherlock took that split second to tear the gun off the table and slide it through the man's legs. John was already moving forward when he snatched the gun off the floor, dead-legged the man from the back, and caught him as he fell backwards. Wrenching one of the man's arms painfully behind his back, John shoved the gun under the man's chin hard enough to leave a circled imprint in the flesh.

In utter malevolence, John cocked the gun once and bent low to whisper in the man's ear.

"I haven't killed in three years, but I'd fucking _love_ to start with you." He seethed.

The man trembled in his grasp, and John wrenched his arm further until he let out a clipped cry of pain.

"John." Sherlock commented levelly, but John couldn't hear him over the throbbing of his blood and adrenaline.

"Mr. Holmes--" The man stammered, and John shoved his chin further up with the barrel of the gun until he was entirely facing the ceiling.

"Mr. Holmes won't save you." John seethed into his ear, and the man swallowed heavily around the gun.

"John."

"Mr. Holmes!"

" _John_." Sherlock iterated sharply, and John shot him an irritated glance. "Let him go."

"Let him _go_?" John somewhat screeched with a look of utter disbelief. "Are you _mad_? He just tried to lodge an axe in your skull!"

"Yes. Quite intentionally, too --I hired him off the street." He explained slowly, and John's shock was quickly turning into a righteous fury as Sherlock held a hand up to prevent the diatribe that John was gearing up to sputter incoherently at him. "This was just an experiment, but I'm afraid you're quite close to destroying one of the variables. Lestrade's tantrums are tedious enough when we're not directly responsible for the murder, so if you would let this man go, I can explain everything to you."

With on long glance at the intruder, John released him with a sympathetic expression and dusted the dirt off of his shoulder.

"I am so sorry, sir. I didn't mean to--" His apology was cut short, however, as the man barreled forward to snatch the money Sherlock was holding out between two fingers. "Have a good evening!" John called, though it went unheard as the front door slammed hard enough to rattle the walls, and John could only nod in bubbling anger for a long minute as he concentrated to a spot on the wall. Sherlock held himself with a bored countenance as the previous hysterics gave way to a painful silence.

John crossed his arms, bit the inside of his cheek, and cleared his throat once:

"Before I put you in a head-lock, I'm going to give you one chance to explain what the _hell_ this whole thing was about." He spoke as evenly as possible, which was far more intimidating than his usual shrieky outbursts and monologues.

"I needed to see it."

"See _what_?"

"You." Sherlock explained, rolling his eyes when the meaning went profoundly misunderstood, because this _was_ John Watson he was talking to. "I needed updated data on your fight or flight responses when placed in high-stress situations." He explained as he gestured vaguely to the gun in John's hand.

For a suspended minute, John could only stare at the man in front of him in staggering disbelief.

"So--" He stopped, then tried again. "So you let me _manhandle_ some innocent sod that you hired off the street to scare me into thinking that you were being murdered, because you wanted to see my _skills_?"

"Yes." Came the emphatic reply.

"I almost _shot_ him, Sherlock!"

"I paid him well." He offered, both failing to see the difference between a human life and a great pay-out while missing the point with a glorious profundity.

"There's blood on your face!"

"Borrowed from the morgue. 'A' positive, I believe. Not even my type." He explained; eyes narrowing in confusion, however, as John's previous anger began to meld into a few short, breathless laughs.

"So this whole thing --the text, the intruder, the axe," John gestured with his gun to the axe lodged in the wall. "It was all just some kind of test to see if I could still _hold my own_?"

"It was for research purposes." He defended, somewhat affronted by John's ability to simplify the piss out of everything intelligent in this world. "There haven't been any especially fatal cases in the last six months, so I needed to simulate a real crisis in order to gauge a genuine response from you."

And then John was giggling. Hard --because he had been terrified enough to believe that the homicidal killer he had been in contact with for a week now had deviated from their plan to break into the flat and murder Sherlock Holmes in cold blood; when in reality, the whole thing was just another fucking experiment. A _con_. A sham, a farce, a joke, and John was the punchline.

Always.

But as John considered the detective in pointless disbelief, he caught the satisfied glint flash in his cobalt eyes, and then it dawned on him what he was dealing with, here. He knew this look --the heady, almost erotic and utterly intrigued look of fascination that Sherlock got when he had witnessed something truly unprecedented. He had shown this look for Jim Moriarty, he had shown it for all of the puzzles and clues and games and riddles that warranted more than a weeks worth of deliberation.

And in that moment, he had shown it for John.

"But that's not it at all, is it?" John asked with a predatory smile, and Sherlock's previous annoyance was suddenly on the defense as John stalked closer. "No, I know that look." He gestured to Sherlock's face with the gun. "This wasn't for research or data. This was for your sheer fucking _enjoyment_." John remarked smugly as he stepped deliberately into Sherlock's personal space to utterly level him into the floor with his epiphany. "Wasn't it?"

And after a scorching hot moment of scrutiny, Sherlock smirked in response:

"Partially." 

"Entirely." John quipped, a Cheshire grin spreading to his eyes.

"Yes." Sherlock said confidently, and John huffed out a short laugh and looked away.

Before Sherlock could respond, however, his chin was abruptly tipped upwards as John shoved the frosty barrel of the fully-loaded Browning under his chin.

Peering down over the gun, Sherlock held John's attention with a pitch-black intensity, though John merely rebuffed the gesture with an infuriating smile.

"And were you disappointed?" John whispered in his ear while cocking the gun once and holding Sherlock's gaze with a titanium burn.

A long minute passed as they held each other in complete but separate hostages.

"In the last three years, I never saw something so brilliant." Sherlock remarked, voice low, and John swallowed heavily. Clicking the safety on the gun, John tossed it to the floor, cradled the back of Sherlock's head, and pulled him down into a viciously demanding kiss. 

Sherlock then responded with the control of a fucking _wild cat;_ andthis, John realized, was how you turned Sherlock Holmes on so hard and so fast it was almost feral.  


After a breathless second, John smacked off with a wet pop. When Sherlock dove in to ravage his mouth for the second time, however, John swept past him, muttered a quick "no," and began walking to the other side of the room.

" _Why?_ " Sherlock asked, rounding on John as his eyes flashed in anger.

" _That's_ why." John muttered darkly, and Sherlock followed the direction of his finger where it pointed to the very shattered and very irreparable tea-kettle that lay in shambles on the floor. There were no words for what he wanted to say, Sherlock could already tell; so he simply turned to send John a look of complete and speechless incredulity. "That was my favorite one." John explained with a viciousness usually reserved for a parent talking about a child.

"There's a three-foot ax lodged in the wall because I hired a homeless person for my own personal profit, all so he could be threatened, manhandled and mistreated by an ex-army doctor who held him hostage at gun-point --and you're telling me you're upset over the _kettle_?" Sherlock asked in shaking disbelief.

"Yes." John replied as he tore the ax out of the wall, and a few trails of chalk-dust streamed on to the floor after it.

And for the first time in a very, very long time, John was rendered paralyzed by Sherlock's deep and whole-hearted giggling from behind him. He looked over his shoulder to find Sherlock slumping down against the wall and giggling as he wiped the blood from his face with a dish towel. Smiling stupidly to himself, John finally exhaled a pent-up huff of air and slumped down next to Sherlock.

"Jesus." John laughed once as he laid his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. "What a night."

"Sometimes, I have to consider the possibility that you might have been made for me."

At that, John rolled his head towards Sherlock who observed him in complete bafflement. 

"Even though you don't love me?" He asked, laughing once.

"In all fairness, you don't love me either." Sherlock quipped with a smirk.

"True." John offered with a gesture of his head. He heard the scrape of a lighter and turned to find Sherlock cradling a cigarette in his hand with the flame of the lighter licking the end of it.

"I ate this morning." Sherlock offered in retribution as he inhaled the cigarette, unaware that John wouldn't have contested it anyway.

And for a while, they both sat in silence with only the sounds of Sherlock's occasional smoke-filled exhalations accentuating the silence.

"Can I ask you some questions?" John pierced the silence, not looking at Sherlock as the conversation took a more direct turn into forbidden territory.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"The question."

"You owe this to me." John iterated sharply, and he turned to find Sherlock staring at him in annoyance, but without any real protest to speak of. When he merely laid his head back against the wall and closed his eyes with the Menthol rush, John spoke up despite: "During those three years, when you were doing --whatever it is that you were doing, did you ever wish you could have been doing it with me?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered factually, though John didn't really expect that he would feel the need to avoid anything with this one. "I...yes."

"Right." He cleared his throat. "And do you regret leaving me behind?"

"No." Came the emphatic reply, and John turned to find him inhaling a long drag of smoke out of the cigarette. "If you had --distraction would have been the worst possible thing. No, I don't regret it. That shouldn't surprise you anymore, and you already know you won't get an apology." He spoke in carbon resolve, but John couldn't find it with in himself to contest this one any longer. After the Fall, he had learned that there were many battles he would have to pick and choose, and this was not one of them. The issue of leaving him behind could only be water under the bridge at this point, and John _hated_ it.

"Right. Are you--" He aborted his sentence, entirely unsure what angle to take this from. "Are you attracted to me?"

"A little late to be asking that now."

"Fine. Have you always been?"

"No." Sherlock replied, and John didn't feel up to taking it any further by asking when he did become attracted, because this was both irrelevant and painful enough as it was.

After that, they fell into a few minutes of comfortable silence. It was nice, really --to be able to have these rare moments of honesty that they never would have accepted before Sherlock died and essentially took John with him.

"After you jumped, when you--" He tried, clearing his throat and swallowing heavily. "After, I saw you all over the place. In random crowds of people, on the tube, just walking by. I swear to God I saw you, but I know that you weren't actually there." He turned to face Sherlock who was staring ambiguously ahead. "Did you ever see me."

A suspended minute passed before Sherlock blew out a long, wounded exhalation of smoke around himself.

"Everywhere." He replied tiredly, and John leaned back against the wall.

A few minutes passed before John quietly heaved himself off the wall, rolled over to straddle Sherlock's legs, and began kissing him softly into the wall. The cigarette Sherlock was holding was immediately abandoned on the floor and he placed his hands on John's face as he simply rode the tongue of the shorter man, because this was the logical conclusion to where the conversation was going to end anyway.

Where _they_ were going to end.

After a few minutes of shifting to perfect the angle, Sherlock sat up and brought his hands to the sides of John's ribs and lapped viciously through his mouth and across his teeth. His lips were swollen and chapped, but the discomfort could never take precedence over the soul-shattering frustration of never being able to get _enough_ of something he didn't want in the first place.  


And John's hands were sliding all over --up and down the ribs, shoulders and neck, and all through his curls and down his spine. The detective moaned painfully when John began to massage his thumbs into the erect nipples, and John found him making content humming noises as he began to fluidly rut against Sherlock from the top.

"John." Sherlock somewhat groaned as he broke away and leaned his head back against the wall. Distantly, John braced his hands on both sides of Sherlock's legs and began rutting down harder against his crotch, this time noticing the very obvious bulge in Sherlock's trousers.

"Sherlock, you're--"

"Ignore it."

"Wh--"

"Ignore it." Sherlock ordered as he rolled his head back against the wall. "I can--" His reply went unformed, however, when John reached down and squeezed his cock through the fabric once, sending his hips bucking into his hand as his head snapped forward.

" _John._ " He snapped, this time angry and breathing deeply.

"Do you trust me?" John asked.

" _Don't._ " He muttered nefariously, warning John of all the wonderful and horrific things that could happen if 'trust' was going to be the catalyst in all of this.

"Do you trust me?"

"Irrelevant."

" _Imperative_ , Sherlock." He punctuated severely. " _Do. You. Trust me._ "

"Yes."

"Then trust me." John whispered, and Sherlock observed in intoxicated horror as John slithered down his body. With one reassuring glance sent his way, John slowly leaned down and began mouthing Sherlock's cock through the fabric of his jeans.

He watched, satisfied, as Sherlock's head hit the back of the wall as his hands grappled for something to tether him --whether it be in place, to himself, to the ground, or to earth, he just needed something to hold him down and ground him from getting too far lost in the sensation.

John worked his mouth and tongue lazily into the fabric of his crotch, and Sherlock created and aborted soft, contented moans as he began to cant his hips upward into the heat of his mouth. John moved his tongue faster up and down his cock, and Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed as his hips picked up in pace in their attempt to relieve the friction.

"John." Sherlock somewhat choked, and John could see his cock stretching the fabric of his trousers in the painful attempt to be relieved of the pressure. With his mouth still sliding over his cock, John brought one hand to the zipper of his trousers and began to slowly zip it open. Sherlock glanced down at him, half-lidded and panting, as John pulled his mouth off and sat up.

Reaching down inside the trousers, John carefully pulled his weeping cock through the opening of the boxer-briefs where it sprung out against his belly. Before he could go down, however, he was stopped by Sherlock's hand shoving his chest back.

"Don't--" Sherlock tried, shaking his head once in frustration. "I don't need this."

"And?" John questioned, and Sherlock's pupils blew open under the half lids.

"If you do this, I don't know what I'll--"

"And it's all fine." John interrupted.

"No. It's not."

"You choose _now_ to be concerned. Of course."

"You're being reckless." He warned.

"You wouldn't like me any other way." John whispered headily, and Sherlock sat up and braced himself with his hands behind himself on the floor. He huffed out a frustrated breath of air, and John glanced at him once. "Good?" He asked.

"Good." Sherlock muttered somewhat miserably.

With one last gaze, John leaned down and wrapped his hand around the base of Sherlock's cock, knuckles brushing against the crinkly black curls below his navel. It prompted a spasmic jerk from the detective, but John kept going as he began to move painfully slow strokes up and down the shaft. He groaned, and John winced as a hand grappled into the fine blond hairs on the back of his head.

After a few languid strokes, John brought his mouth to hover hotly over the head of his cock, and Sherlock's whole body ran rigid beneath him. Sherlock watched him, moon-eyed with his mouth parted, and John nodded his head once. With one dive downward, he placed his mouth over the head of his cock and ran his tongue in small swirls over the head.

A choked sound broke in Sherlock's throat, and John shifted to his knees. With a few wet strokes of his mouth up and down, he looked up to find Sherlock staring at him in half-horror, half-lust. Diving back down, he swallowed all of Sherlock that he could manage and began to slide at a quicker pace, savouring the salt-soap taste of Sherlock's skin. At this point, Sherlock's hips were lightly thrusting upward, and John gagged despite himself when he abruptly hit the back of his throat.

And then Sherlock was sliding out of John's mouth with a wet pop to stand up and steady himself against the wall. Bracing his hands on Sherlock's thighs, John leaned in and swallowed him down from a better angle. Sherlock's hand planted itself lightly on the crown of his head, and every suck was being met half-way by a fluid thrust of Sherlock's hips into his mouth.

He sucked harder and faster until Sherlock was grunting with every soft thrust, and John cut his eyes upward to find Sherlock with his eyes closed and head lolling against the wall in the attempt to keep the last threads of his control in tact. Sliding slowly to the head, John sucked _hard_.

"John, I'm--"

"It's fine. Go ahead." John reassured, and after a quick lapse of composure, Sherlock's hand cradled the back of his head and his thrusts were hardening from fluid undulations into desperate jerks as John tightened his lips around the shaft.

" _John_." He then groaned loudly, and John felt the hot, bitter spurts of liquid shoot into his mouth and fill him. Sherlock doubled over and braced himself on John's shoulders, and his cock twitched in his mouth as John let him ride out the rest of his orgasm for a long minute. Chest heaving labouredly above him, John slid off, mouth full of cum, and stood up.

Before Sherlock could protest, John tipped his face upwards, kissed him fully, and transferred the cum into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock voiced a startled moan and stumbled backwards, but swallowed half of it down as John took the other half and caged him against the wall. They kissed lazily for a few minutes afterwards, and John lapped the cum off of the corner of Sherlock's mouth before he pulled off and rested his forehead against Sherlock's.

"What the _hell_ was that?" Sherlock rasped, voice gravelly and deep as he regulated his breathing and slumped bonelessly against John. He was in the turbulent wake of sensory gluttony, and it was dangerously close to being _toomuchtoomuchtoomuch._

"Something I've always wanted to try." John replied with breathlesness and good humour. "I don't know --seemed like something you'd like."

"You are playing with fire." He whispered miserably, and John opened his eyes to find Sherlock's own glassy, frosted orbs utterly focused to his.

"I've been burned before." He huffed out a laugh.

"You _ridiculous_ man." Sherlock whispered as he pressed a fleeting kiss on his lips, and then he was gone.

Twenty minutes later, John heard the shower turn off as he lay on the sofa and read through the paper. Soft sounds were flashing from the telly, and John glanced upwards as Sherlock walked in wearing his robe and pressing a towel into his wet mop of hair.

"I'm going out tomorrow night with Mike." John commented in passing, eyes still scanning an irrelevant article in the paper. Sherlock made a non-committal noise as he sat down next to John and lit another cigarette. "Did you really eat anything?" He asked as he flipped the paper down, and Sherlock waived him off.

After a few minutes, he folded the paper and stretched into the arm of the sofa as he lay back and crossed his arms behind his head. It would have been normal --their kind of normal, anyway, except the normalcy he was fighting for was changing every second of every day alongside the definition of their relationship. What used to be somewhat predictable was now shapeless and mold-able, expanding and realigning into the caricature of whatever they deemed they were becoming.

His thought was paralyzed, however, as Sherlock blew out one last round of smoke, crushed the cigarette against the coffee table, and turned to climb atop John and lay face-down against his chest; his long legs twining with John's.

"When the hell did this become normal?" John asked as Sherlock buried his face in the collar of his shirt. He grunted, and John placed a palm over his eyes to dilute the developing headache.

"That thing you were doing this morning." Sherlock mumbled into his shirt, entirely ignoring the possibility of offering John a response. "Do it again."

He opened his mouth to protest, but snapped it shut when he realized that any kind of protest wouldn't stand a chance in hell anymore when he took into consideration everything else that he should've been protesting all along. With a sigh, he tiredly brought one hand down to massage through the curls and over his scalp. Sherlock collapsed against him, and John busied himself by scrolling through his text messages with the other hand.

After a comfortable twenty minutes of this, Sherlock's breathing regulated itself into soft, even expansions.

" _Jesus, he fell asleep_." John thought in amazement. " _Without the Zolpidem_."

Before he could slide his way out from underneath the heavy detective, John's alternate phone buzzed in his pocket and his heart skipped a beat. Reaching for it without disturbing the body on top of his, he pulled it out to find a completely expected text from Sterling Dell.

" _Complications came up. Meeting changed to tomorrow afternoon. Confirm within the hour._ "

" _Confirmed._ " John sent back, unconcerned with why the change had occurred and more-than-willing to get the whole thing over with.

It could all go so badly. One misstep, and John could be utterly _destroyed_ in half a second of time; but after five years of this, he accepted whole-heartedly that this is what came with the territory of caring for Sherlock Holmes. And when he looked down at the man who had been conditioned to mistrust everything, who risked his life in every way possible to save him from a sniper, who was lying vulnerably on his chest and taking a damned minute to trust that he could breathe here, John agreed that it was all fine. More than fine, actually.

Instead of sliding out from underneath him, John pulled the Afghan off of the back of the sofa, threw it over the two of them, and turned out the light; deciding that for a little while longer, there was absolutely nothing wrong with being who and what they were at that given moment. Rooftops and snipers and gravestones had shown John that good things could be blissfully annihilated in a nanosecond of time, and there was no reason to pretend any more that his love for Sherlock could manage to be hidden, or even deserved to be hidden at all.

In whatever kind of way it was, John wasn't above admitting that in some way or another, he truly loved Sherlock Holmes.

And it was all fine


	8. If You Never Know The Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Crawling then walking, then running and sweating. Forgetting. Lying and cheating, aiding and abetting. Forgetting. Spellbound and hellbound and caught in the netting. Forgetting. A wiping it clean, a minute Armageddon. Forgetting." -- Forgetting, David Gray

" _Complications' came up? And exactly what kind of ' **complications'** are we talking about, John?_ "

"He didn't say." John explained tonelessly, because Mycroft was already teetering on the edge of losing his temper with the whole thing anyway. "Just said I need to show up in the afternoon. Same place, just earlier --in three hours, actually. Jesus." He said, glancing at his watch.

" _Oh for Christ's sake._ " Mycroft muttered tiredly to himself, and John could almost hear the fingers tapping impatiently on his desk through the other end, because this was a deviation from the original plan; and oh, how Mycroft Holmes _hated_ deviations. Could nothing ever be taken at face-value?

"I think he has to get out of the country."

" _Yes._ " He replied exhaustively. " _It's likely to do with the trade. I imagine he can't leave a million-dollar drug market hanging in the balance for very long, things turn 'sour' otherwise. There's a very real possibility he stepped up after Christopher's untimely death --he's likely the only one who knows how to manage it all."_

A long silence punctuated the other line, and John licked his lips as he paced slowly throughout the flat with the alternate phone tucked between his chin and his shoulder.

" _Of course this means I'll have to rush to assemble a new team._ " Mycroft explained through a sigh. " _There were some absolutely critical individuals who I had arranged to fly in from outside of the country later tonight --they're the best in their field, but you understand that I'll have to call for short-notice individuals who are less skilled because of this, John. At this point, I can't guarantee you a competent team any more than I can guarantee you any kind of reasonable safety._ "

"It doesn't change anything." John cleared his throat as he absently scratched his arm and leaned against the couch. "I'm still --I'm going even if you can only manage to equip a team of four-year-olds with sniper rifles. I'm done flirting with this bastard." He said, unconsciously twisting a tuft of the rumpled Afghan between his thumb and index finger.

The night before, he and Sherlock had been here, and -- but _Jesus_ , John, _stop_ , there are more important things to be thinking abo--

" _And you do understand that he doesn't actually want to 'have a conversation' with you._ "

"Which is good. Because I don't actually want to talk to him." John said firmly, and Mycroft sighed audibly through the phone.

"A _nd there's nothing I can say to dissuade you from this?_ " Mycroft asked, and John flicked his eyes to the window as he walked away from the couch.

"There's a sniper directly across our street, Mycroft. I think that ship has sailed." John said as he pulled the drapes closed at the thought, bottling the darkness around himself. Small comforts. "And even if there were a safer way to go about this, I don't think I'd. God, I just want to get rid of this guy, Mycroft. Really, I do. And so do you."

" _Might I remind you that you are walking in to this situation entirely weaponless? I don't know how you plan to 'get rid' of him, but let me assure you that hand-to-hand combat won't kill a man."_

"I was a soldier." John laughed. "I can kill with much less than that."

" _And Sherlock?_ " Came the inquiry, and John felt his optimism dilute as he heaved himself off of the couch, suddenly uncomfortable with the feel of the fabric against his skin.

"What about him?" He asked as he ran his fingers over a peeling section of the wallpaper.

" _I'm not going to have this conversation with you again._ "

"He'll be fine." John said. "I'll be fine."

" _For his sake, I do hope so, because those two things are entirely synonymous with each other._ "

"Give me the run-down, then." John said, mentally solidifying a soldiers mindset as he directed the conversation away from Sherlock Holmes. He spent enough time harping over the man as it was.

" _It is as it was, just with far less security. When you arrive, you are to distract him for an hour, but do not engage him. I'll have a sniper stationed discreetly in the warehouse forty-five minutes after you arrive, and I'll give him the confirmation to shoot when an hour has passed; no more, no less --so if you should find yourself bleeding out on the ground, John, I suggest you wait for the 60-minute mark before you decide to die._ "

"Hey, that's the spirit."

" _John_."

"Right. So I'm to bullshit him for an hour, endure any kind of medieval torture he throws my way, and then wait for the team of four-year-olds you'll scrape together to save me. That's good. I like it --let's go with that."

" _Please understand the severity of this, John._ "

"Trust me, and I'll trust you." He responded firmly as he ran his palm down the face of the yellow smiley on the wall. "How's that sound?"

" _Childish. And if you are to be...compromised, I will have a team of qualified medics on standby who will be stationed five miles away. If something does happen, I trust that you'll utilize your own medical skill as best you can until they arrive?_ "

"Yes. I'll do what I can." He said, now running his thumb up the side of the smiley's face and into the eye. Gerald. Yes, it looked like a Gerald. "Is that it, then?"

" _I'm afraid so._ " Came the reply as John collected a stripe of dust off of the binder of a chemistry book and twiddled it between his thumb and pointer.

"Right. Then I guess I'll--" He tried, clearing his throat and swiping his hand on his trousers. "I'll see you later."

" _Undoubtedly._ " Mycroft said, and the crackle of the disconnect underscored the statement as John flipped the phone once and put it in his pocket. He looked around and observed the still-born caricatures of their flat, and the silence was almost unnerving in its timing.

Since they had moved back six months ago, Sherlock hadn't left the flat long enough to prologue any kind of silence for John to stumble into. As it was, things were always crackling and falling and buzzing and toppling over in the wake of Sherlock's neuroticy, so the chance he had fallen on to walk around and observe these things in the way that he hadn't yet had a chance to felt bittersweet and almost...melancholy.

But mostly, it was because John couldn't shake the feeling that he was going through the motions of some kind of ritualistic goodbye, and it was all so God-awful --some kind of unconscious sanctification that the God of 1st Corinthians 13: 4-7 bestows on certain individuals as a small mercy for having their souls ripped away or dissolved or faded.

He had awoken that day around one in the afternoon to find himself sprawled on the couch with the Afghan twisted around his ankles and his neck with a painful crick in it. He had called for Sherlock, but when the reply warrented only the bizarre silence of the walls, John reached for his phone to text him when he saw a message from said detective:

" _Break in Moxley-Shelley case. Steel, John. Be back later._ \-- **SH** "

" _Why didn't you wake me?_ \-- **JW** " He sent, only slightly irritated as he massaged the back of his neck.

" _Didn't want to._ \-- **SH** " Came the reply, and John whispered Sherlock's name tiredly, because he had no idea if that response was based in irritation or affection; but it didn't matter either way, because Sherlock wasn't supposed to _do_ these kinds of things without telling him first or waiting for him, or --or something. And if something were going to happen at the warehouse, John wanted to tell Sherlock certain things. There were these things he needed to say at some point; things he told the gravestone and the ceiling and the skull, and he might not always have the chance to--

"Nope." He commented to himself. "We're not --no."

He jumped when a vibrate from his phone rattled the silence.

" _I can't think._ \-- **SH** "

" _That's certainly a first_. -- **JW** " He sent.

" _We're eventually going to have sex._ \-- **SH** " Came the reply after a good fifteen minutes, and John's eyes widened fractionally with a sequence of thrumming heart palpitations that followed upon sight of such a text. Sitting slowly on to the couch, he licked his lips to find them dry and cracked, and his thumb hovered over the keyboard for a few considering seconds, because what the _hell was he supposed to say to that_?

" _I wouldn't have a response to that if my life damn near depended on it_ \-- **JW** " He sent, eyebrows rising in whelm.

" _Then allow me to assist: just respond with the words 'It's all fine.'_ \-- **SH** "

" _Why?_ \-- **JW** " He sent through a small grin, though he wasn't sure which of the hundred "why's" he wanted answered first.

" ***DUPLICATE*** _I can't think._ \-- **SH** "

" _Talk about it tomorrow. It's Friday, going out with Mike tonight, probably be back late, you know the drill. Don't wait up._ \-- **JW** " He sent, and with that parting sentiment, he frowned at his phone listlessly.

Things weren't supposed to be like this. And yet, always. Always, why--

Why did the critically detrimental areas of their entire partnership always get lost on such cruel ironies?

" _Yes, Sherlock. Tell me you want to fuck me, and I'll tell you we can talk about it later, knowing that later might not happen for me. And tell me you're a glorious fraud, too. Go ahead, tell me you were a fake from the very start, but do it right before you jump off the fucking building so that I can never tell you how much I don't believe you. In response, I'll tell you you were the most human human-being I'd ever known, but I'll only say it when you can't hear it --when it doesn't fucking matter anymore. Then tell me you never wanted this from me, but make sure you whisper it in my mouth and rut against me as if you've never wanted anything else in your life. And later, tell me you could never allow me to leave, but say it right before I leave --for a warehouse that I might not return from, so say it before I have a chance to tell you that there's nothing to contest anyway, because I wouldn't ever leave you unless I had to. And this is one of those times when I have to, but you won't know that. You won't know that this is something I have to do, because this is what we do, Sherlock. We bullshit and dance around each other until all of the 'would have's' become 'should have's, and I don't know. I just. I don't know."_

A strike of the clock signaled five, and he glanced firmly at the door.

" _I'm off_. -- **JW** " He texted both to Mycroft and to Sterling Dell as he stuffed the barrel of his gun into the back of his trousers and flipped the black-leather jacket over top of it.

" _Understood_. -- **MH** " 5:00 PM.

" _Understood._ " Sterling Dell. 5:01 PM.

Opening the door, he stopped in his stride, pulled the gun out from under his jacket with a gratuitous curse, and tossed it back on the coffee table before turning out the light and locking the door.

**(Later - 6:03 PM)**

The cab ride there is sobering, to say the least.

" _After you read this, turn both phones off. Anymore communication until later isn't worth the risk. If you need to contact anyone, do so now. I will always be in background, John, do not feel alone._ \-- **MH"** 6:08 PM

" _Thanks._ \-- **JW** " He texts back, and finds that he means it.

" _It seems Lestrade has commissioned Anderson and Donovan to double-team me in the sport of sheer fucking idiocy tonight. Complete overkill. I'm going to ask that you endure this with me next time._ \-- **SH** " The text reads, and John shamelessly laughs out loud, because Sherlock Holmes only ever resorts to cursing when he is well and truly out of his depth with the driveling masses.

After five minutes of silent consideration, he composes one text to Sherlock with a stupid smile on his face:

" _Sometimes, I have to consider the possibility that you might have been made for me._ \-- **JW** " He responds, though Sherlock won't know that it's also John's default response for anything and everything that has ever risen between them all along. Forever and ever, amen, and _please_ understand _that_ if you choose not to understand anything else.

And then he turns off his phone, because these are already dangerously close to the musings of a martyr, and its absolutely imperative that he believe the outcome in all of this hasn't already been set in stone. Sherlock cheated death. John Watson fucking can, as well.

The driver casts him a dubious look from the front when the surrounding territory becomes less city and more rural, and John just waits.

**(Later - 6:40 PM)**

It's nefariously cold, and the wind has scratched his cheeks and eyelids raw as he pushes the double-wide doors open. Stepping inside, every ounce of sound that he makes echoes formidably, and the door shuts behind him with a massive reverberation throughout the building. It smells of cardboard, dust and chemicals, and the whole building is shrouded in complete blackness.

He steps forward, catching his breath from the cold, and stops in the middle of the room with his hands on his knees.

"John Watson." He calls, and it echoes up and down and all around the metal rafters and concrete floor.

After a few suspended seconds, a sequence of booming sounds punctuate through the room as every overhead light on the ceiling turns on one-by-one until the whole room is illuminated by large sections of light, all buzzing with the sound of the fluorescent charge. He huffs out a white breath of air.

He takes a few steps back, surveying the width and depth of the building and height of the second floor, but stops when a glacial ring presses into the back of his neck. He doesn't turn around, but licks his chapped lips and stares straight ahead.

"Stand still."

He braces himself as Sterling Dell holds the barrel of the gun to the nape of the neck while squeezing every clothed segment of his body for a weapon that sits paralyzed on a coffee table in a place that seems a million countries away. After five minutes of pointless groping, Sterling stops in his endeavor and steps back, though still pressing the gun into his neck. "Good job, babe." He mocks as he roughly shoves John forward.

"Is this the kind of conversation you wanted?" John laughs, stumbling to a halt.

"What's that old bullshit saying? Actions speak louder than words?" Comes the inquiry, and John huffs out a laugh as he finally places a voice to the name. "I've never really been one to talk, Dr. Watson."

"Good. I've never been one to listen." He retorts, and a deep laugh runs centrifugal around him as Sterling Dell slowly vulture-circles him. His voice is deep and gravelly --not as deep as Sherlock's and certainly not as beautiful, but it's the kind of deep you would expect to find with some kind of shitty move villain. John finally glances to the right to find the cropped blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes and the sandy beginnings of a beard that has formed out of a days worth of neglect. His face is hardened for a university chemist, and his intent to kill is...unexpected. Mycroft described him as an involuntary criminal, but there doesn't seem to be anything unintentional about him.

He stops in front of John and smiles before he looks down to the floor and laughs once.

"Okay, okay. That's cool." He offers fairly, but John's vision abruptly rips into blackness when the heel of the gun slams over his forehead.

Hitting the floor, he scrambles for the cognition to retaliate as he writhes against the skull-splitting pain. Dazedly, he rolls his neck to the side to find a combat boot scuffling towards him, and he hisses in pain when Sterling Dell plants the boot on the bone of his sternum and steps up, shifting all of his body weight onto that foot as he holds the other in mid-air.  
John blinks around a dribble of blood that is pooling in his eye as Sterling peers down at him.

"You can choose to be a smart-ass, John. I'll allow that --however, you can make the wise decision here and decide to shut the _fuck_ up before I give you a reason to." He reaches down and rubs a thumb over John's bottom lip. "Mm. Those teeth are too pretty to be knocked out, but I'll make you swallow them along with whatever bitchy comments you have for me tonight." He looks down, then, and cocks his head in pity and sticks his bottom lip out in a pout. "Look at you. You were expecting this, weren't you? Didn't even try to defend yourself --just resigned yourself to _take it_ until the perfect opportunity came up to ambush me. Honestly, I'm kind of underwhelmed, soldier-John. I wanted to see what Sherlock Holmes gets to see when you guys run into assholes like me."

"Why the need to cut it short?" John asks, breath stalling as the boot crushes him one last time before lifting off.

"I told you. 'Unexpected complications' arose." He says as he pulls John up by the shirt. "These types of things always go to hell, it seems. First world problems, you know? You think you're so close to hiding the perfect murder, and then some _bastard_ of a problem rises out of the fucking ashes to--"

A loud echo bursts in through the room, and both he and Sterling spin around to find the double-wide doors swinging open.

"Who did you tell?" Sterling barks as he wrenches his fist into John's collar and shoves the barrel of the gun under his chin. "Who the hell are you?" He calls out to the entrance.

"Sherlock Ho--" The figure begins, stepping out of the shadows with an outstretched gun only to stop dead in his tracks and entirely abort the sentence when his eyes land on the two people in front of him.

"You told him. I gave you one ultimatum, and you fucking _told_ Sherlock Holmes anyway--"

" _No_. I didn't. Sherlock, why the _hell_ are you--"

"No, why the hell are _you_?" Sherlock snaps back darkly, brain still whirling rapid-fire and struggling to connect the synapses of what is before him. John opens his mouth to respond when his head is abruptly craned backwards by a hand grappled into his hair, and the gun is shoved further into his chin. He can't see anything save for the rafters on the ceiling as Sterling barks in his ear.

"There better be a good fucking explanation for why Sherlock Holmes is here, Watson. I would start explaining before you lose the ability to _open your mouth_."

"Christopher Dell." Sherlock says, eyes narrowing in realization, and John and Sterling both turn towards him. "I killed you. Two years ago."

"Wrong." He laughs lowly, and John flicks his eyes back to Sherlock, willing him to make the connection, to _deduce_.

"He's not Christopher Dell, Sherlock. He's Sterling Dell." John explains, choking as his head is wrenched backwards, and Sherlock's eyes narrow in confusion as he holds the gun fiercely at Sterling's head.

"Wrong!" Sterling bellows, and a sickening silence pervades the room with the sounds of Sterling Dell's heaving laughter, and John can't figure out what the hell is wrong. "You didn't kill Christopher Dell, Sherlock Holmes. You killed Sterling Dell -- my identical twin brother." He says, and John swears to God that ice-water shoots through the blood in his veins.

This is wrong. This wasn't, this isn't--

"Fucking hell, you're not Sterling?" John rasps as he swallows against the barrel of the gun, and he glances over to find Sherlock's eyes close as he mouths the word "twin" to himself in utter fury. And John knows then that this situation is so much worse than was originally expected, because they aren't dealing with the silly chemistry student as the vindictive younger brother of the American Moriarty -- they are dealing with the _American Moriarty himself_. He glances over at Sherlock to find him tight-lipped and lost and running frenetically through the entire film-strip of his encounter with this man two years ago, trying to pinpoint the exact moment where he got it so devastatingly wrong. "Jesus. You're Christopher Dell." John says.

"Correct." He says, cocking the gun with an intentional click against the flesh of John's throat. "And if somebody doesn't tell me why the hell Sherlock Holmes is here in the next thirty seconds, I'll put a bullet through your skull on the assumption that you told him of our communication."

"The murder I've been investigating." Sherlock blurts as his eyes flicker between John's and Christopher's, mouth moving just slightly ahead of his brain. "Haley Moxley and Patterson Shelley were murdered several days ago. Since you seem to know so much about me, then you'll understand that it's my job to solve murder cases. John and I were studying her body in the morgue, John found a locket in her throat --we don't know how or why it was there, but it was made of maraging steel." Sherlock said, eyes blazing on Christopher's.

"And?" He asks, entirely unimpressed with the conclusion. "Give me something more than that, Holmes. Jesus, you're conceited enough to know that that won't help me with shit."

"Maraging steel is an incredibly strong alloy made with high percentages of nickel, cobalt and molybdenum --complete overkill for a cosmetic accessory. It would have been heavy and uncomfortable to wear. She was a trained military operative who likely wouldn't find appeal with uncomfortable accessories, so I had an underlying theory that it must have been used defensively or for some kind of protection to merit that kind of alloy. I took it apart and found that the left side of the locket was used as a decoy compartment with a fake back that concealed the software for a tracking device behind it --assuming of course that is has been planted on you, because it led me here, which means of course that you killed them."

Christopher's eyes narrow as he dubiously glances at his arms, and Sherlock interrupts him: "It's new technology built by the Japanese company Hitachi, and the device is designed to be impossibly small. 0.5 millimeters in diameter --roughly the size of a grain of sand, so I wouldn't bother looking for it. You will likely never find it. Now tell me, Christopher Dell, is that enough proof for you?"

And then the gun is removed from John's neck as a few slow claps echo throughout the warehouse.

"Impressive." Christopher says, clapping, and John exhales in relief when he can get a better visual on Sherlock, who is tracking Christopher with the scrutiny of a wild animal. "Just as good as they all said. Shit, no wonder Jim loved the hell out of you."

And John catches Sherlock's "epiphany" face -- the face that means he has _finally_ caught up, finally squeezed the last puzzle piece into the picture, finally made sense of the enigma in his hands.

"I see." Sherlock says, eyes flashing. "American FBI agent. Patterson Shelley must have arrested you in 2006 for the drug scandal."

"Yeah, and a lot a' good it did him, too. As you well know, when you have Moriarty on your side, you might as well have God on your side." He says, still craning his arm back to hold the gun pointedly at John's chest. "That jury was pitiful --susceptible to a few basic threats, and the whole justice system just falls to shit. What a sad, selfish world."

"They followed you here."

"Yepp." He clicks his tongue. "He and that bitch were on a quest for the 'greater good' or some trifling shit like that, but they've been trying to destroy me since I was proven innocent. I took Sterling's ID as mine to get over here, and of course they were on that like a whore on a cigarette. They figured I was up to no good --rightly so-- and knew I wasn't Sterling. Figured that if I couldn't be arrested for murder in the States, I could be arrested here for identity theft considering my license has been suspended due to all of 2006's bullshit." He gestures with a wave of his hand behind himself. "So I shot them both with his gun."

"Why the girl?" John demands from behind, and Christopher sends him an unimpressed glance.

"Why _not_ the girl?" He asks, somewhat disgusted. "She was the one who worked with Shelley in 2006 to have me arrested. She pretended to work for my trade as an undercover cop for three years just to compile evidence against me to give to Shelley, who then had me arrested for it." He said factually. "It was a sad thing, too, because she was good at what she did. Still good, if the locket idea isn't any indication." He explains, sighing dramatically as he picks something out of his thumb nail and flicks it. "And like a good old-fashioned tragedy, they fell in love with each other, and the rest is really just a crock of bullshit."

"His fingerprints were on the gun." John states, and pointedly ignores the glare Sherlock sends him.

"Child's play." He says, waiving off the inquiry with his gun. "Patterson held the gun and I held my hand over his and pulled the trigger on her, then turned it back on him."

"You made them _watch_? You made them--" John grits his teeth and spits blood out of his mouth. "Jesus, you are a pretentious _fuck_."

" _John._ " Sherlock snaps, but the sound of metal on bone splinters through the room as Christopher slams the gun into the side of John's nose, sending a few glossy spurts of blood onto the floor and over his mouth, and John stumbles to the floor.

" _Damn_ , Watson!" He laughs in disbelief as he crouches in front of John. "You just don't know when to shut u--"

"It's all true." Sherlock steamrolls, and John can tell he's struggling to regulate his breathing. "What I've said. It's all true. I had absolutely no knowledge of John's involvement in what this is." He mutters darkly, and this time John takes the full brunt of the positively furious glare Sherlock holds him with before he turns back to Christopher. "My presence here is entirely isolated to myself."

The blood runs unceremoniously over John's lips as Christopher nods and sniffs once, considering the confession for a few minutes. John glances at Sherlock, shakes his head once, and Sherlock turns away.

"Okay. Okay," He offers, nodding in approval. "I actually believe you. Doesn't change the fact that John Watson will die, though." He chirps, and John can almost feel the tremors in the air from Sherlock's patience about to go absolutely supernova on itself.

"I thought he was you." Sherlock answers darkly, and Christopher snorts in disbelief.

" _Oh_. Oh, I get it now. The 'Amazing Sherlock Holmes' --royally _messed_ _up_. Got it _wrong_. _Missed_ something." He says through a smile before glancing down at the floor to study his shoes. "I watched the camera footage, you know. He tried to tell you he wasn't me."

"They all do." Sherlock mutters frigidly, and Sterling huffs out a short laugh and walks slowly over to John with Sherlock following every movement like a bird of prey.

"Well, do you believe him now?" He asks quietly as he nudges the barrel of the gun into the hair on the side of John's head. "Put your gun down, Holmes."

"No." Sherlock says, and Christopher clicks the safety off of his gun and places his finger over the trigger.

"Put it on the ground and kick it towards me." He orders. "Oh _come on_. Don't pretend this isn't tearing you to pieces. Half the fucking world reads the blog, Sherlock. We all know you two are either fucking crazy about each other or just straight fucking each other. I'll leave you high and dry the way you did him, only John Watson's death won't be built on some escapist bullshit. His death will be nothing less than what death is _supposed_ to be."

This time, Sherlock tosses it to the floor and kicks it with the side of his foot where it skids to a halt in front of John. With one quick swoop, Christopher picks it up and throws it across the room where it clatters noisily against some metal in the background.

Christopher trails the gun sensuously over John's cheek and through the blood on his forehead as it stops just under his chin. He then glances up at Sherlock, and the ridiculous theatrics of his mood have entirely dissolved into a humourless prologue.

"Sterling was my assistant in a business outside of Moriarty." He says sadly, and for a moment John can almost feel empathy, because he knows how it feels to lose someone in the wake of James Moriarty. "He was never part of Moriarty's war."

"Neither is he." Sherlock gestures towards John with his head, and Christopher seems to snap out of the moment of sobriety.

"And that's why the murder of John Watson --'blogger, soldier, doctor, protector and ' _Sidekick Extraordinaire_ ' to Sherlock Holmes is going to be fucking _divine_." He chides, and Sherlock's nostrils flare and his mouth thins. "Because let's face it, Sherly. You won't know my pain until you _know_ it."He spits, completely devoid of any amusement. "Now, I was planning to let you find him in scattered pieces, but somehow this seems better." He comments softly as he presses his forehead to John's and grins, and John holds his hand up defensively at his side, signaling Sherlock to "stop" when he steps forward. " _I believe in Sherlock Holmes_ '. It was you who started that, wasn't it, Watson? It was really cute for a while, there --even had buildings in the states with the graffiti. But I think it's time for the world to be painted with something else. I'm thinking ' _I believe in John Watson._ "

"If you do this, you will not leave this room alive." Sherlock mutters emotionlessly, and it's possibly the most terrifying tone John has ever heard him take, and all John can do is question Mycroft's definition of an hour, because this has been a goddamned _decade_.

"Doesn't matter. The only alternative is 'staying alive', and I don't really want that anymore." He explains, running his thumb over the gash on John's forehead and bringing the blood to his mouth. He pops off with a wet smack and smiles at Sherlock. "They called me the 'American Moriarty' for a reason, Sherlock, but personally, I never saw the resemblance." He says, stepping away from John and stalking towards Sherlock to pin him with a glacial smile. "I never saw the fun in trying to win a game that _every one_ eventually loses." He whispers, and before a shadow of a second can pass, he twists and fires one shot behind himself and into John's left shoulder.

He hits the floor, and Sherlock's previously rigid countenance completely shatters as John cries out once.

"What do I have to do to stop you."

"Can you bring people back from the dead?" Christopher inquires, and Sherlock's mouth thins into a line. "...then not a fucking _thing_." He spits, and raises his arm once again at John, though this time settling somewhere on the side of his head, and Sherlock is one second from fucking _losing it._

Before he can pull the trigger, however, a skittering red dot dances over Christopher's forehead, and Sherlock abruptly twists around to look up at the balcony as a single shot is fired from above.

Christopher Dell hits the floor --killed instantly.

From where he's lying, John can only see the rafters of the ceiling again, but vision has lost it's meaning in the wake of such pain --such blooming, blind-white pain, and he _knows_ this. He's been here before, this same microcosmic hell. He rolls his head to the side and his cheek lands in the tacky pool of blood puddling from underneath him, and the tilt of the building's foundation is obvious as the blood runs lazily down the floor.

"Finally." John whispers to himself as he looks on to the second floor to see the silhouette of the sniper standing from his crouch off of the floor to disassemble the bipod.

" _Finally?_ " Sherlock snaps in question, and John rolls his head back over to see the sweeping wool of the Belstaff whirring over his face as Sherlock drops next to him. He opens his mouth to respond when a cool voice from the second floor echoes, small but clear, down around them.

"Target S. Dell executed using tactical Catastrophic Brain Shot from 350-yard vantage point. Medic team commissioned by Mycroft Holmes is clear for immediate dispatch, person of interest down." He comments into a walkie-talkie, and John closes his eyes in frustration.

"Shit." John whispers as his stomach rolls with nausea.

" _Mycroft?_ You and _Mycroft_?" Sherlock nearly screeches, and John chokes out a sob as he attempts to sit up, but is firmly pushed back into his own puddle of blood. " _Lie down_." Sherlock orders, and John knows unlike he's known anything about Sherlock before that this is the most suppressed kind of furious he has ever seen Sherlock labour under.

And then Sherlock is tearing the leather jacket off of him, and John opens his eyes when the alternate phone --Sherlock's phone from two years ago-- falls out and clatters into a pool of blood. He watches Sherlock, dazed, as the detective picks up the phone, immediately recognizes it for what it is, and falls utterly silent in a way that John never thought was healthy for Sherlock to be.

And he wants to say he's sorry, but he knows that it will fall on deaf ears, because Sherlock will likely never forgive him this, and it's not looking promising that John will have the months of time it would take for Sherlock to let this one go anyway. But that makes it even more critical, to say these things. These things, all these things that he didn't want to say -- _say them now, Watson, because you're losing your grip_.

"Sherlock."

"Shut up." He spits, and John watches as Sherlock grapples with a pocket-knife, throws the Belstaff off of himself and onto the floor, and begins cutting it into long strips of fabric. "Tell me what to do."

"Pressure." John chokes, and he knows that the blood is backing into his throat. Sherlock glances up at him, and the anger is replaced with a semblance of fear for a short spanse of time as John spits the blood pooling onto his chin and down his neck. "Keep --the pressure. Sh--" He hisses as Sherlock presses one of the strips of wool into the wound, and if Sherlock can't forgive him for doing this whole thing, then he can at at least forgive him for crying.

The tears roll out of the corners of his eyes and into his ears, and Sherlock glances between his face and the wound in distress as he wraps one strip of the wool around his shoulder to make a bind.

"Sherlock." John tries, though he can only see the fringe of the black curls as Sherlock glances out the window and back down at his shoulder. His hands are covered in blood, and a smear of blood underscores the blue in his iris, and it's inappropriately gorgeous --beauty in the wrong way, the wrong convention, like everything about Sherlock is. "Sherl--" He chokes again, and the blood spurts through his nose as Sherlock presses into the wound, decisions becoming sloppier and less-informed.

"Where are they?" He mutters impatiently to himself, looking frantically out the window for any sign of ambulatory lights.

"Sherlock."

"Stop talking." Sherlock orders, but this time John uses all the strength he has left to grasp Sherlock's wrist mid-air.

" _Listen._ " He spits, and Sherlock rounds on him in utter disbelief, eyes flaring wildly with incredulity.

" _What?_ " He orders, anger faltering as John's arm falls limply into the puddle of blood at his knee.

"If thin--" He spits the pooling blood out of his throat and closes his eyes. "If things go wrong here, don't--"

"Choose your next words _very_ carefully." He nearly snarls, and John levels him with a glare.

" _If it happens,_ " John interrupts. "Don't be angry, and don't _ever_ blame yourself. Can you --promise me that, Sherl--"

"No." Sherlock spits as he continues to apply pressure to the wound, slicing more of the fabric into strips of binding. "You don't have the luxury of asking me to do _anything_ for you right now."

John observes in fading clarity as Sherlock ties the last of the wool around his arm and unwinds the immorally expensive scarf from around his neck to hold to John's still-bleeding nose --and it could very well be the blood loss, but John then kind of feels that maybe Sherlock loves him in the way he loves Sherlock, because that scarf is so indicative of Sherlock's persona to have suffered an undignified death against the blood of John's nose. And really, it's all fine, because even if Sherlock never loved him in the bizarre way that he himself loved Sherlock, it could never matter when John considered what Sherlock did do for him, which was to save him.

..from a limp. From a life of monotony. From a life of pretense and normalcy that he thought he wanted, but didn't. From a life of loneliness and purposelessness. From himself.

Which is why, in the middle of Sherlock's charged hailstorm, John wraps a bloody hand against the back of his neck and squeezes once.

"Love keeps --no record of wrongs." He rasps, and Sherlock momentarily falters as he scrambles to apply more pressure.

"I'm not in love with you, John." He replies, voice distant and eyes fixed on the pooling blood, and _why won't it stop_ \--

"I know." John laughs, squeezing again, and this time Sherlock spares him a harried glance. "But if you were, I would tell you you shouldn't be." He smiles, bloody-mouthed and crying, and Sherlock finally silences his own storm as he exhales a large breath of air, hunches over, and braces himself on his hands and knees. John can only see the black crown of his head as he struggles to regulate his breathing. "I never told you -- thank you, but I had hoped you --knew." He says, and Sherlock shakes his head, curls bobbing lightly as he gasps for air.

"If you don't want to know any of the --rest, then I want you to know that I'm--" John chokes, and now the tears flow unbidden; but it's okay, because he remembers Liberty Indiana in the same way that he remember "Liberty in Death", and this is probably what that expression means. "Grateful. For you, and who you--are." He finishes, smiling, and Sherlock finally glances up at him; and if the man isn't already beyond the point of being wrecked, he's one shaky second away from falling to pieces on a molecular level.

"You invaded Afghanistan." He says, voice shaking and angry. "You've worn Semtex for me and killed for me and survived three years of life without me, so if you can't survive this, I'll--"

"Continue to help other people in the best way that you know how."

" _Wrong_." Sherlock somewhat screeches. " _Wr_ \--" His voice gives out on a crack, and John pulls his head down to his chest and Sherlock goes entirely willingly, laying his forehead against John's un-wounded shoulder as he trembles and trembles and trembles on top of him. John massages the curls on the back of his head and cranes his head away as Sherlock slams one clenched fist into the ground beside his head.

"Hey. Listen." John whispers, fighting sleep, as he hears the police sirens fast approaching from outside. He can't afford to open his eyes, but he feels Sherlock haul himself to his feet and he hears the scrape of gunmetal sliding off the concrete. "Sh--" He tries, and as the medics burst into the doors with the stretcher, John cracks one eye open to watch as they hit the floor and duck for cover as Sherlock fires four terrifying rounds into the body of Christopher Dell.

"Get him out of here." Sherlock orders, gesturing wildly, and John watches through one eye as Sherlock wipes the blood off of his face with his sleeve, slings John's blood off of his hand, snatches Mycroft's alternate phone off of the ground, and leaves the way he came in.

The last thing John see's is the pale and utterly abysmal expression of Mycroft catching the tail-end of Sherlock's dramatic exit as he's lifted onto the back of the stretcher.

"Don't let him--" He whispers sluggishly to Mycroft. "Don't let hi--"

"I won't." Mycroft says, and every thing falls to black.


	9. Every Intention

"--not likely to respond, so don't let this concern you." Came a distant female voice, but John could not open his eyes. Everything was nothing, save for a few faceless voices in the dark, and he winced around the pulsing of his head.  
"Dr. Watson? Can you hear me?" Came the soothing inquiry, and John felt the presence of someone descend close to his face along with a few tearing noises in the background. "How are you feeling?" He tried to open his mouth, but neither sound nor movement was under his control. "Yeah, I don't think we're quite there yet." She turned and spoke sweetly to someone in the background.

"Dr. Kreshner had him down for Pulse Oximetry at q4h, but it looks like he changed it to q8h during night shift. Is that--" Came a different female voice from the left.

It dissolved along with John's grasp of any kind of reality.

**(Six Days Later)**

"-- long enough, I should think. Kreshner declared stability on Sunday." Came the voice again, and this time John had a tenuous grasp of the vocabulary being used. Hospital, obviously, which meant she was either his primary nurse, or a consult to the primary physician "Kreshner" if the casual use of his name was any indication. The voice craned away. "Yeah, I think he's ready. Call Hadley in CCU and tell them Kreshner cleared him for the step-down. He ordered a bed, though, so don't have him for Telemetry. He needs to stay in the unit."

"Wh--" He tried to say, but his voice came out in a complicated rasp around a thick NG tube pressed against his tongue.

"There you are." Came the voice, only this time it was soothing and pleased and _far_ too loud. "I know you can't speak Dr. Watson, but you are in good hands. Don't feel the need to stay awake."

He didn't.

**(Three Days Later)**

The next time it happened, there were no voices at all. There was only the white face of the ceiling as it materialized from a watery blur into a sharper image of itself. Sluggishly, he rolled his head to the right and saw the presence of the Oximeter attached over his finger, but he closed his eyes in relief when his tongue couldn't identify any presence of the NG tube. The IV was settled into the crook in his arm with a beige plaster, and he followed it's tube to the Saline drip hanging from the pole.

"Well that one turned out to be quite fun. A regular Stephen King, if you ask me." Came a familiar voice, and John rolled his head to find Mycroft sitting in a chair against the wall and scrolling boredly through his phone. "I always appreciate a good twist in the story, but perhaps with less blood loss next time. How are you feeling, John?" Came the soft inquiry, and John observed as Mycroft stuffed his phone in his suit and pulled the chair next to his bed.

"Like death."

"Appropriate, considering..."

"How is he?" John asked, wincing as he tried to shift into a sitting position, though aborting the movement upon realization that he was going absolutely nowhere with whatever demon was chewing on his sternum. "Sherlock, is he--"

"You've been unconscious for a little over a week now, in case you were wondering. I'm not going to tell you how close you came to your coffin, but only because I believe it to be somewhat detrimental to the healing process. You'll live with a few complications, but most of them will be alleviated with the use of strict physical therapy. You are, for all intents and purposes, one of God's favourites."

"Sherlock." He rasped, though with more sound this time. Mycroft leaned back in the chair beside John's bed and steepled his fingers with a tired scrutiny.

"In all 39 years of his life, I've never seen him so furious." He replied, and John could tell the man was harried and well beyond exhausted. "I told you not to do anything irrational."

"Yes, well --complications arose. _Damn_." He hissed as the hollowed pain in his chest cavity rippled with another attempt to sit up. "Patterson Shelley and Haley Moxley. Did Sherlock tell you--"

"That who we previously believed to be Sterling Dell was actually the elder brother Christopher Dell? That he murdered Shelley and Moxley due to their participation in his arrest? That the case Greg Lestrade commissioned of you two put Sherlock directly into the path of our private plan? Then yes, he did tell me everything --screamed it, actually, but that's neither here nor there." Mycroft leaned forward and frowned. "I am sorry, John. I was unquestionably careless in this endeavor, and I never should have asked for your participation. The consequences were not worth the risk." He said, glancing around the hospital room.

"The sniper." John said, steam-rolling over the apology. "Across the street. Is he--"

"He's been taken care of." Mycroft assured with a smile.

"By you?"

"By Sherlock. Our friend across the street was essentially destroyed before I had a chance to say otherwise. I'll spare you the details. I did prepare, though. Both he and Christopher's bodies are being held in the morgue under false identities until I can find some way to dispose of them --in all honestly, I think my frequent visits to Bart's morgue over the last three years have led the staff to believe me to be a person of extremely questionable hobbies." Came the reply, and John found himself giggling entirely inappropriately.

His laughter waned with the transition of the conversation, and the elephant in the room was almost rampaging against the walls.

"He's being watched, though?" John asked. "We both know what he's --we both know, Mycroft."

"I have the CCTV streaming real-time footage of several rooms in the flat." Mycroft replied as he flashed his phone towards John, revealing a live-stream of 221b's front door.

"How much does he know?" John asked, running his tongue over his chapped lips and battling a strong urge to fall asleep. "About what we...planned." He rasped, brows furrowing in pain.

"He knows everything." Came the factual reply. "After the theatrics of that night, there was no point in hiding anything else from him. He was already past the point of murderous, so I figured I didn't have much to lose in telling him every thing we planned with as much honesty as I am capable. After seeing you bleeding on the floor, John, I do think he deserved the truth."

"It's fine." John spoke, and found that he actually meant it. "When was the last time he was...here?"

"He hasn't come to see you." Mycroft replied a little apologetically, and John couldn't help the sharp stab of hurt that shot through him like the hard edge of ice. It had been two weeks. _Two weeks_. "Realistically, Sherlock doesn't even know you're alive."

"What?"

"He suspects it of course, and I did tell him you made it through surgery, but we have since cut off all communication with each other. He needs space, and I am not above giving it to him this time around. I know when I'm in the wrong. So does he."

"Jesus." John whispered through an emphatically frustrated laugh as he dropped his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes. When he made no more effort to comment, Mycroft cleared his throat.

"I didn't notify your sister Harriet, but I took a few liberties in assuming that you'd agree with that decision. Greg Lestrade did come to see you yesterday, but I should warn you now that he's marginally angry as well."

" _Marginally_." John repeated to himself with a laugh.

"And of course Mrs. Hudson has brought you a real plethora of treats that you are not allowed to eat. Your friend Mike Stamford has been immensely helpful --your surgery was not his specific specialty, but he has been more than willing to keep tabs on your doctors to ensure that you received only the best. Molly Hooper has inquired after you every day this week, and Sarah Sawyer sent you that lovely arrangement." He gestured to an arranged basket of flowers with a "Get Well" card and balloon tethered to it.

"And you?"

"I've been here as much as I possibly can." He commented as he composed a new text message on his phone. "I know I'm not Sherlock, but I've been making amends for him since he was old enough to grasp sarcasm. Consider me his placeholder until he decides to settle down."

"You don't have to apologize for any of this, Mycroft. Shit happens, and you were only looking out for him in the same way that I was." He explained, eyes still closed. "I'll be damned if he...expects me to say I'm sorry. It won't happen."

"You're in luck, then. I highly doubt an insincere apology would hold water to his current anger. He feels entirely betrayed, John --he is obligated to trust me, and he chooses to trust you."

"Did you say that to him six months ago after I left the warehouse that night? Hell, just replace my name with Sherlock's and the joke really...makes itself." He spoke quietly as the hands of morphine-traced sleep pulled him down, down, down. "He told me he would never apologize. Why should...I."

"You'll likely be discharged in two to three days, granted every thing remains in your favour." Mycroft followed, not bothering to offer an answer to a question that likely had a hundred answers, or no answer at all. "I'll arrange for your homecoming. Try to rest." Came the final reply, and John felt a hand lightly squeeze his shoulder.

"Mycroft."

"Hm?"

"What am I going home to?"

"To a man who almost lost every thing after fighting three years to get it back. He'll act accordingly."

A few soft footsteps followed after, and the door closed with a click.

John finally succumbed.

**(Two Days Later)**

John hobbled slowly up the front steps of 221b.

After three more days of intense physical therapy to prove that he was fit to go home, (In addition to multiple assurances that "Yes, I'm a doctor, I'll know what to do if something happens.") John discharged himself from the hospital, thanked his nurses profusely, and walked slowly to the black car Mycroft had waiting for him out front.

He slid carefully into the car as a security guard opened the opposing door to slide multiple bunches of flowers, cards and other "Get Well" wishes into the seat next to him. He and Mycroft had agreed not to tell any one of his discharge, both knowing that Sherlock would be less than receptive of unexpected visitors than was normal.

"Where can I set this?" Came a voice, and John turned around to find the security guard with the paraphernalia bundled in his arms, waiting for John to provide direction.

"Oh, right. Just. There. There is fine." He gestured to some unacknowledged space to his left before stepping up to the door. "Thank you." He said behind himself as the guard nodded once, slid into the car, and drove away. His hand paused momentarily on the handle of the door before he quietly pushed it open, and stepped into the silence of an utterly paralyzed flat.

It had been exactly as he left it.

Walking slowly, he turned a few different corners and stopped in the living room's entryway to find Sherlock, fingers steepled and unmoving, sitting on the sofa in total silence. Distracted by the creak of the floorboards, Sherlock glanced up at him, and John could only assume he must have expected Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson, because his eyes immediately snapped back to him after an obvious double-take.

He felt utterly stripped of a defense as Sherlock scanned his eyes up and down his body once before he turned away, re-steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, and folded himself back into his silence --and John knew at that moment that Sherlock was in a place and a state of mind that he hadn't dealt with before, and he neither knew how to resolve it, nor where to start. This was something he didn't know, and that left him with a rolling sickness.

"In two weeks, I want you gone." Sherlock spoke to the wall across the room, and John would have staggered if he hadn't had one hand on the counter.

"No you don't." He replied through a short laugh, acknowledging that it was likely the most humourless sentiment Sherlock could ever express to him. After everything. After everything--

 

"Mrs. Hudson will provide you with boxes, and Mycroft will pay for a moving company to transport your things."

 

"Yeah. That's not going to happen." He dismissed, dropping his hospital bag on the floor and turning into the kitchen. He reached for a tea-cup with his unwounded shoulder and slowly began to prepare the Chamomile blend when Sherlock appeared in the doorway. John pointedly did not turn around.

"If you're not gone in two weeks, I will leave."

And then John dropped the tea-cup on the table, huffed out a trapped breath of air, and braced himself against the counter. There was only the sound of the running tap to fill the silence of the room, and John bowed his head forward and berated his anger into submission. After counting to twenty, he turned to face Sherlock, who was leveling him with a scrutiny that suggested he was entirely closed to negotiation or emotion of any kind.

"Recover from this." John spoke severely, and Sherlock's mouth instantly thinned into a white line as he stepped forward, then abruptly halted.

John was wholly unsurprised when Sherlock barreled past him, leaving only the slam of the front door to rattle the walls.

John didn't go after him.

**(Four Days Later)**

After 72 hours of not speaking, John lay in bed at one in the morning while simmering in half anger and half heartache, because this was almost a carbon copy of what his life had been when Sherlock was dead.

After his conversation with Sherlock, he had gone about his business as usual with Sherlock stopping in for extremely brief periods of time before flying off again, which meant the flat was almost constantly quiet --insultingly so, and John could not fathom why he had ever wanted this kind of quiet in the first place. The quiet was all he had had for three consecutive, miserable years of his life, and this was dangerously close to what those years had been. Silence meant focus, focus meant thinking, and thinking led to dwelling on the rippling pain in his chest.

"I don't know where to start." John spoke to the ceiling. He had tried to re-establish some of their habitual routines, but Sherlock remained grounded in his ignorance. John was still on heavy prescription painkillers, which meant he slept for a huge portion of the rest of the time and never caught Sherlock in the flat anyway. " _And I don't know where you are_."

Slowly rolling out of bed, he made his way downstairs to administer another painkiller to himself. On his way back, he deigned to stop by Sherlock's bedroom door. The door was locked, but the light that normally slipped from under the door was nothing more than a black line.

" _And right now, I don't know what you are_." John thought, but as he moved away, he heard the distinct scrape of a lighter from the inside of the room. An orange light flickered pitifully under the door before waning entirely, and John glanced back at the coffee table to see the half-empty pack of cigarettes sitting there.

And with one nanosecond of livid consideration, John decided that this had been allowed to go far enough.

Turning, he quickly fumbled a pair of his thick military boots on his feet before carefully bracing himself with one hand on the wall. He thanked God in that moment for his military training, because this was an incredibly daft idea for anyone who didn't know how to do it, and even more stupid for someone who had been shot three weeks before. With one painful thrust and a silent prayer, he slammed the heel of his boot down against the lock and hissed in pain as the lock stuttered and broke off.

"No." John snapped rigidly as he pushed through the door, and Sherlock was already moving forward from the bed. The room was shrouded in complete darkness, and Sherlock was instantly in his face and gearing up to shove him out the door when John clasped his fingers between Sherlock's own and momentarily strained against him, palm-to-palm and wrist-to-wrist, before finally garnering enough strength to topple the balance of power and push him a few steps back. They were nothing more than a tangle of black limbs tearing wildly at each other, and John felt a fingernail scrape a hot and angry line under his eye as he scrambled for purchase of Sherlock's t-shirt collar and yanked him to the side. He was already deliriously high and charged with stamina, and John twisted one of his arms behind his back and ripped the tourniquet off of the other arm with one swift movement.

And then an overwhelming wave of pain cracked through his chest as Sherlock shoved him into the door, earning a satisfied crack of his head against the wood as a picture on the wall clattered to the floor. Falling forward, he reached out and grasped the nightstand next to the bed to steady himself until his arm slipped out from under him, toppling himself, the lamp and the nightstand to the floor.

" _Shit_." He cursed as he crawled four-legged, knocking his knee into the lamp. Scrambling to his feet, he was already reaching for the syringe on the bed when Sherlock caught his wrist and spun him backwards. He stumbled back, though not before grasping the needle end of the syringe between his thumb and pointer. With one powerful launch, he chucked the syringe into the wall where it shattered and left a star burst of liquid trails rolling down the wall.

And as he turned around, he was met with a rock-solid fist to the side of his previously-broken nose, and before he could defend himself, blood was already dribbling over his mouth and chin as he retreated back against the wall. Reaching to the side, he flicked the light switch on the wall while cradling his bleeding nose and found a crazed but disturbed Sherlock on the other side of the room.

"I won't let you kill yourself." John spoke through laboured breaths as he swiped a hand upwards against the blood pouring from his nose.

"You don't _get_ to say that to me. Not after --you and _Mycroft._ " He snapped, but John was having none of it.

"Mycroft loves you. He was against the plan from the very start out of sheer fucking concern for _you_ , so don't say another word about Mycroft." He snapped. "If Harry cared about me half as much as he cares about you, I'd--"

"He helped you lie to me." Sherlock seethed, and in all his life John had never felt the kind of anger that then encompassed him.

"It _hurts_ , doesn't it?! When someone you care about chooses to leave you out and go it alone --fucking _aches_ , doesn't it?!" He bellowed, and Sherlock momentarily stilled. "I never intended for this to happen, Sherlock, but it's a damn good thing it did. Christopher Dell was right. You were never going to know this pain until you _knew_ it."

"Will I ever hear the end of your pain, John?" Sherlock bit caustically, and John grabbed a shirt off of the floor and swiped it over his mouth before tossing it to the side of the room.

"Not until you stop trying to kill yourself." He spat as he reached behind to fumble with the door handle. "I care about you and your life, Sherlock. Let me know if you decide to do the same before we _completely_ destroy the rest of what we are." He iterated, but as he turned to step out of the room, he was knocked to the side as Sherlock strode forward from behind and slammed the door shut with an outstretched arm.

"Do you want me to love you, John? Is that what you want? For me to love you without reservation?" He snapped, and John felt his teeth clench painful and tight, because this was nothing short of cruel. Even at their worst, they didn't verbally crucify each other this way. Sherlock always knew what areas would hurt the most, but he rarely ever took advantage of the truly corrosive angles of attack.

"Get out of my way." John ground, shoving him brutally in the chest.

"Let me take this opportunity to tell you what 'love' looks like when it comes from me." He seethed as he bent low in front of John and pinned him with a glacial glare, one arm still holding the door shut. "If you leave again and neglect to tell me where you're going, I will track you down, and I'll disregard  _any_ protest you may have otherwise. If you go behind my back and hide information from me again, I'll bully you until you think _twice_ about doing it again. If I want you or something from you, I'll take it at my _leisure_. If someone has you in a compromising position, I'll destroy every person in my path, innocent or not, to get to them. If you get yourself injured badly enough to constitute discussions about funeral plans, I'll shoot cocaine with a smile on my face. And God help you if you get yourself killed, John." He muttered darkly, and John returned the level glare as Sherlock moved in closer. "So I'll ask again --do you want me to love you, John? Because _that's_ what it will look like, and against my better judgement, I likely already do. So if any part of what I've just said is at all disturbing to you, then I suggest you _watch your step_."

And then Sherlock wrenched the door open and flew past, but John was already on his tail.

"I love you." John called, rigid and emotionless.

"I know." Came the unimpressed answer as Sherlock continued to walk away.

"I've spent the last six months trying to think of something to say to you about the suicide, but I haven't found a word to convey to you how incomprehensibly cruel that was." John spoke evenly, somewhat sobering as Sherlock slowed to a dubious stop. "I wanted you to _suffer_ \--the way I did for _three fucking years_ of my life, Sherlock, and I didn't know how to make you feel it, too. But I can see now that the best way I can do that is to tell you I love you, because that is something you will _never_ be able to outrun."

Sherlock cocked his head slightly to the left, and John caught the distinct clenching of his fist. Feeling entirely liberated, John spoke up:

"So whether you're alone and shooting heroin in some _piss_ alley or alone in taking a suicide mission over this fucking planet, I will always be somewhere loving you and willing you alive --and I hope that becomes a goddamned _plague_ to you."

"It already is." He spat, and John cursed audibly as Sherlock left with the slamming of the door.

**(Four Hours Later -- 5:03 AM)**

John hissed as he peeled a strip of blood-permeated gauze away from his shoulder wound. The previous altercation with Sherlock had led him to reopen the wound, and the blood tore away in scabbed flakes as he peeled the bandages away and dropped them into a bloodied pile of scraps on the coffee table. With a bowl of warm water and a towel, he pressed the wet cloth gently over the blood-flaked wound, prompting pink trails of water to roll down his arm.

Unrolling the gauze from it's spool, he began to re-bind the fabric around and over his shoulder.

"I was going to die." Came a deep voice, and John snapped his head upwards to find Sherlock, red cheeks and chapped lips, standing above him after what was obviously an adventure into the glacial nightlife of London's winter.

"Wh--"

"Your blood on my hands was the most repulsive thing I've ever known, and I was going to die. I had every intention, and that will never change."

"That will never be fair." John replied angrily, though somewhat un-intimidating in it's approach as his throat suddenly closed up and the back of his eyes stung.

"Get over it, John." He replied. And like many times before, John watched Sherlock Holmes leave him behind.


	10. Unwell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N - After reading reviews for this story on every site I've submitted it to, I've counted a total of fourteen different reviews that have used the word "intense" to describe the last chapter. So I'm asking: should I categorize this story as "Dark?" I don't feel that it necessarily meets the criteria for a "dark" Sherlock fanfiction, but I also don't want people getting too overwhelmed with the angst if they're not expecting it. Let me know if I should categorize this as "dark."
> 
> Also: There are going to be two more chapters for this story, and I'll warn you now; the next chapter will be explicit.
> 
> And! Thank you all SO much for reading and commenting. Feel free to rec the shit out of this fic and pass it around if you should so desire.

" _Need to take a statement about mess with C Dell. Come in at 3_?" - **GL**

" _Depends. Are you going to shout abuse?_ " - **JW**

" _Don't know, figured Sherlock's done it enough for me._ " - **GL**

" _He's not much up for speaking right now._ " - **JW**

" _Good. You deserve it. 3?_ " - **GL**

" _Fine_." - **JW**

It had been a week since they had last spoken. A week since John told Sherlock for the first time that he loved him. A week since Sherlock told John for the first time that he would have willingly sent himself to the grave if John had not survived.

It had been a week.

**(3:00 - Scotland Yard)**

John sat quietly in Lestrade's office as the DI rifled through a file cabinet for the police report involving Christopher Dell. Rocking boredly from side to side in the swivel chair, John lifted his head as Lestrade shut the cabinet with a clang and turned around, silver head lifting in exhaustion.

"Consider yourself lucky the whole thing was essentially sponsored by Mycroft Holmes." Lestrade replied tiredly as he slapped a file down onto the table and sat opposite John. Reaching forward, John began to pick through the documents until he came to a crude photo of the bloodied concrete floor. "If he wasn't pulling strings, I doubt you two would escape the powers that be on this one. So fucking stupid, the both of you -engage a known drug lord and have Sherlock show up with the illegal firearm. Jesus Christ."

"If it makes any difference, I didn't actually ask him to bring the gun." He remarked through a wince as the second photo revealed a close-up visual of the entry and exit wound on Christopher's forehead peeking through several sprigs of blood-clumped hair.

"Makes no difference whatsoever. The gun is registered with you, you'd go down for ownership and he'd go down for pre-meditated or intent to kill."

"It could have been self-defense. They wouldn't be able to prove otherwise."

"They're' not fans of Sherlock to begin with. Any thing that could tip the scales in their favour to hand him twenty to life would've been a fucking _gold mine_ of opportunity. These things do have consequences. One of these days you two might have to experience one."

"I was sort of hoping being shot and almost killed would be consequence enough."

"That wasn't your consequence, John. That was Sherlock's." Lestrade replied, flicking a serious gaze towards John. Swallowing, John tossed the file back in front of Lestrade and crossed his arms.

"Fine. Let's get it over with, then. I'll sign the consent to a recording if that's what you're waiting for."

"That's not what I'm waiting for."

"Wh-"

"That." Lestrade answered as his eyes flicked upward, and John swiveled in the chair as the door flew open to reveal a burly security guard shoving Sherlock gracelessly into the room.

"Get off." Sherlock snarled, twisting, eyes flashing with anger as the security guard reached around him and pulled the door shut. A muffled jingle was heard outside followed by the click of the lock. "This better be-" Sherlock began, turning, though entirely aborting his statement at the sight of John before him. He visibly balked.

"I won't do this with him here." He spoke, voice annihilating room for any kind of universal protest to be made in response. "You've had some glorious failures in your quest for decent ideas, Lestrade, but this one is truly your most staggering. I won't do this with him here."

"Agreed." John spoke rigidly, turning back to Lestrade. "I'll give a statement, but we both know he'll make this hell on earth to navigate. He's too reactionary to make a-"

"Finish that sentence." Sherlock spoke nefariously, and John turned, leveling him with a glare.

"Tell me I'm wrong, then." He challenged. "You're too angry to give any kind of unbiased report of what happened. If Greg wanted emotion and cheap insults, he'd have Anderson give it _for_ you for all the objectivity you _don't_ have right now." John seethed, and Sherlock instinctively stepped forward, prompting John to rise from the chair in defense.

"I swear to you, John, I'll-"

"Both of you sit the _fuck_ down!" Lestrade bellowed, and the boiling mercury in the air utterly crashed to the floor; the soft tick of the clock on the wall being the only noise in a void of silence as John and Sherlock engaged in a barely restrained chokehold. Always being the first to concede, John sighed heavily and sat back down after a long minute, arms crossed as Sherlock moved around him.

Wrenching the chair out at the head of the table, Sherlock replaced his anger with a facade of cool indifference, sat down, and lit a cigarette between two gloved fingers. Lestrade placed a recording device onto the table between the three of them, pressed a button, and glared upward as the reel spun to life. "Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Account from victim John Hamish Watson with accompanying witness account by Sherlock Holmes. Speak only when you're addressed, and don't voice any protests, contradictions or remarks to any report the other gives. Don't lie, don't exaggerate, don't minimize, magnify, or otherwise alter any information necessary to the account. And God help you if I see you two even _look_ at each other the wrong way - I'll have security arrest you both for failure to comply before a word of protest can be said about it. You both know how statements work; I need an _unbiased_ , _emotionless_ , and _realistic_ account of what happened in that warehouse with Christopher Dell. Since it was your suicide mission to begin with, we'll start with you John. You've already confessed to engaging him, when did he initially contact you and in what form did it come?"

"January 12th. He emailed me."

"How did he get access to your email?"

"It wasn't my personal email, it was the blog's email. It's public. Any one can see it."

"And what did the e-mail consist of?"

"Threats, mostly. Said if I didn't contact him, a sniper placed opposite to us would be ordered to shoot Sherlock immediately. Needless to say, I made the first move." At the subject of the very first question, John decided that nobody would be able to pay him in gold, silver or diamonds to even nearly glance at Sherlock for the duration of this session.

"Sniper identified as twenty-nine-year-old Caucasian male, Perrin Caylum." Lestrade spoke gratuitously into the recorder and picked up a single paper from the file. "Okay. Based on the information I've been given by Mycroft Holmes, I take it you used an alternate phone he provided you with to communicate with Dell. Why did you request an alternate method of communication?"

"Dell told me Sherlock would be killed if I told anyone of our contact, so I destroyed my computer and had Mycroft provide me the phone. Sherlock goes through my texts and emails on a daily basis, I didn't want to risk it. It wasn't secrecy. I was being realistic." John remarked confidently.

"And where is the phone now?"

At this question, John merely flicked his gaze towards Sherlock who expelled a heavy exhalation of smoke in response.

"I see. Sherlock Holmes,"

"Gregory Lestrade." Sherlock replied boredly, not bothering to react as Lestrade pinned him with an incredulous expression before clearing his throat and standing up.

"Okay. Yeah, forget this." He spoke as he shut down the recording device, swiped it off of the table and put it away. "There's no fucking point in recording any of this, your brother has every potential charge on both of you ready to be negated or dissolved in ten seconds flat anyway, so I'm going to bypass these questions and just ask the basics. I've already had intervention from Mycroft to prevent this next issue from a court case, so go ahead and tell me when, why and how you killed Perrin Caylum."

"I killed him at 2:17 that morning." He commented factually, the boredom evident in his hooded eyes and listless demeanour. "I shot him six times: once in the shoulder, once in the genitals, once in the throat, once in his chest, twice in his head -and yes, in that order. I killed him for no other reason than because he deserved it." He finished, emphasizing the "t" sound.

John flexed his hand once and focused on a phantom spot above Sherlock's left shoulder. From an anatomical standpoint, those first few locations would have been chosen just to prolongue death and inflict excruciating pain.

"The gun is with you." Lestrade stated.

"Mycroft." He dismissed with a waive of his hand through the smoke.

"Right. And the phone he gave to John?" Lestrade asked, scribbling a quick note on one of the documents.

"I have it." Came the emphatic reply, and Lestrade glanced upward.

"If they request it as evidence, you already know you'll have to br-"

"Then I suggest you call Mycroft and have him assemble a few basic threats for your superiors should it become an issue. It's staying with me." Sherlock replied with no room for protest, and Lestrade held his gaze.

"You're going to be hell." He half-asked, half-stated.

"And you're going to be boring."

"And I'm going to leave if this is how it's going to be." John interjected.

"John, what would you say was your primary motivation in engaging Christopher Dell?" Lestrade then asked, and the room went paralytic as John carefully contemplated his next words. Dishonesty, lies and secrets had been completely and utterly ruinous to Sherlock and John's entire livelihood and being. Lies upon lies upon lies until every thing had to be seen through a smokescreen that caused them to lose a true visual of the other. At this point, John would not concede to an apology, but he was nowhere close to being above honesty.

"Dell came to me with the promise of killing Sherlock before I could compromise with him at all. He cut me off at every pass with threats to kill, so there was no way I could go about this in a way that wasn't dangerous or illegal. Mycroft warned me of the consequences from the very start, so I don't much care what Mycroft can or can't stop from happening to me because of this. Sherlock's only discrepancy was bringing the gun, but that gun is registered under my name. If I get arrested for protecting him, I'll go willingly."

"Fuck you." Sherlock then snapped, and John and Lestrade turned at the uncharacteristic cursing as Sherlock crushed the cigarette on the table and pulled his coat on. "I've given you enough of a witness report to save yourself from a breach of police protocol. If it's deemed insufficient, I won't care. In less than ten seconds I am going to walk out of this building, and you're going to let me go without any kind of interference."

"And if I don't?" Lestrade questioned, eyebrows rising.

"Then I will gladly show you how _unwise_ of a decision that would be." Sherlock muttered nefariously, and Lestrade was already moving forward as his chair flipped backwards with the surge of his movement. In one swift move, John placed himself between Sherlock and Lestrade and pushed Sherlock back towards the door with a hand on his chest.

"Don't do this, Greg. It's not worth your job." John offered calmly, squeezing Lestrade's forearm as the Detective Inspector visibly deflated. Glancing between John and Sherlock, Lestrade cursed quietly to himself.

"Get the hell out of here, Sherlock." He ordered, gesturing wildly towards the door. "You're losing your sodding mind. Get the hell out of my office."

The door had already slammed shut with the flourish of the Belstaff, and Lestrade had no sooner sat down at his desk before their case file was closed and the silence of the room replaced the previous theatrics. Bowing forward, Lestrade held one hand over his eyes and spoke exhaustively:

"Go after him." He said, eyes buried under his hand. "I know you're both wrecked, but go after him anyway. You don't have to talk to him, you don't even have to _look_ at him. I have enough information from Mycroft Holmes to fill in the rest of the gaps, so just go. He's not well, but neither are you."

Silently, John flung the jacket onto himself and followed after Sherlock.

He was already out the doors and into the street when he saw a vague flash of the Belstaff whirling in front of a group of walkers. Collecting himself, John jogged forward, apologizing as he zig-zagged through the crowds until he was walking in stride with Sherlock; neither of them bothering to acknowledge the other. Sherlock's curls peeled back from his forehead against the bitter wind, revealing a cracking composure in his eyes.

"I don't think you would be so daft as to try for the cocaine right now, but I'll let you know that Mycroft has you on real-time. You wouldn't have the chance to tie the tourniquet before half of Scotland Yard would jump you." He commented lowly, frustrated when a response went unmade. "But then again, there is _nothing_ new under the sun."

And then Sherlock began to turn and strike, but John grabbed hold of his arm and wrenched the two of them into a reclusive alleyway with one subdued movement. A glass bottle rolled and clinked down the alleyway, and Sherlock turned, looking angry enough to spit venom as he stumbled forward. John came up behind and spun him around:

"I know you're angry, but you need to calm the _hell_ down before you really do get yourself arrested, Sherlock." He muttered in hushed tones.

" _Nothing new under the sun'_ , John." He mocked angrily, turning and swiping his gloved hand along his forehead in an obvious attempt to dissuade himself from following through with a punch straight to John's face. "I know imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but sometimes I wonder if you've ever had a single independent thought outside of me."

"You feel like explaining that one?" John bristled. "Or is this one of those times where I'm just supposed to 'understand' since I'm the only one who cares enough to try in the first place?"

" _Sometimes, I have to consider the possibility you might have been made for me.'_ From John Watson, sent at 6:09 PM." Sherlock read from the alternate phone in his gloved hands, almost vibrating with anger as his mouth puffed white breaths of air into the cold. The muscles in his jaw twitched under the skin, and John found himself entirely at a loss for words. "I should have never said something so _absurd_ to begin with, and for you to have used it against me in such a _sick_ way. You're just full of cruel ironies, aren't you?"

" _We're_ a cruel irony, Sherlock! It's not an insult, it's a fucking... _synonym_ for Christ's sake. We don't know how to be anything different!" He barked, gesturing wildly. "And I meant every word of that text. Even when I don't _want_ to mean a word of it, it still fucking stands as a universal constant. It's the truest thing I've ever known, and sometimes you make it the most miserable truth to labour under. Don't deny me any sincerity just because you're pissed off." John finished, though flinching as Sherlock hurled the phone to the side where it shattered into shrapnel against the brick.

"One week." Sherlock spoke darkly, and John met him with the same severity.

"You'll hate it, you know. Every second of every day, you will _hate_ it."

"One week." Sherlock repeated, this time turning on his heels to walk back to the day-lit mouth of the alleyway.

"You had every intention of dying, huh? If I hadn't survived, you would've 'killed' yourself?" John called after his sillhouette. He was universally ignored. "When I leave, it will look and feel the same as if I hadn't survived, Sherlock! And you will _hate_ it!"

Sherlock disappeared around the corner with an epilogued flourish of the coat.

Bending to pick up the splintered phone off of the ground, John remembered Mycroft's prophetic words: " _If you stay with him and weather the storms of every thing he is and will be over the next year, I can promise that the normalcy you both had will eventually find it's way back to 221b Baker Street._ "

Leaning against the cool wall, John composed a text without any thought to the contrary.

" _Tell me what to do._ - **JW** "

" _Give him what he wants._ \- **MH** "

**(That night)**

Shortly after John returned home, a massive load of packing boxes was sent to 221b per Mycroft Holmes' request. Although John was incredibly wary of conspiring anymore with the elder Holmes, there was one last charade to play before John would concede that he and Sherlock were too riddled with three years of disease to fully recover into something functional.

After the confrontation in the alley, John had returned home around 6:00 that night to an empty flat and a regular warehouse of boxes placed inside the front door. Sighing, he began to carry them to his room and align them in rows on the floor. Opening his closet, he proceeded to push and slide and open all the dusty containers that held forty-one years of his life. He rifled through boxes of summer clothes and binned any that didn't fit. Tossing them onto the floor of his room, he stacked piles of winter clothes and summer clothes followed by stacks of books to be thrown away and books to be kept.

One by one he stacked his belongings into the boxes, taped them shut and labeled them with the appropriate label. After two hours of seemingly endless organizing and packing, a small fortress of packed boxes was building at the base of the stairs containing anything from medical texts to his old military uniforms and accessories. The clothes still lay in heaps across the floor, and a large box of pictures was at his feet to be sorted through. He didn't own much, but he owned enough to create the illusion he was going for. His bed was pushed against the wall to make room for his dressers to be pulled out and sorted through, their drawers hanging open and emptied of their contents.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he flipped through picture albums of his childhood. There were university mates and various relatives he didn't know, along with several pictures of he and Harry with their parents. There were a few taken within the last few years, most of them consisting of he and Sherlock at various Scotland Yard events and parties. There was a rare picture of he and Sherlock that was taken in cognito by Sally Donovan on a nameless occasion in which he and Sherlock were both laughing at each other. Anderson was in the background gesturing at Lestrade who was holding a beer and laughing at the camera. Folding it, he placed it inside the pocket of his trousers and sorted through to the bottom of the box.

Hearing the distinctive slam of the front door, John continued packing his things with the most sobriety he could muster. A few shifting creaks were heard downstairs moving from room to room, and John heaved another box of his belongings to the outside of his door when the violin rippled up the stairs. When the light downstairs flickered off an hour later, he took another box downstairs and spotted the Belstaff on the wall at the same time he spotted the clock: 2:03 AM.

Stretching for the last box on the top shelf of his closet, he cursed quietly to himself as it toppled over and crashed to the floor. As he reached down to pick up its contents, however, he was immediately struck by a picture of Sherlock wearing the deerstalker peeking through the debris. Swiping the dust off of the newspaper, he flipped it over and felt his stomach drop.

" **Suicide of Fake Genius** " He read, the words leaving him with a rolling sickness as much now as it did when it was hot off the press. He had never in his life been more angry than when he saw Sherlock's picture used to glorify that atrocious, utterly _false_ headline. Crouching down, he briefly scanned his eyes over the article and isolated the few scraps of story he dared to remember: " **James Moriarty vs Sherlock Holmes: Actor in a Sick Charade? Written by Kitty L. Riley** " "... **dismayed by a ruined reputation, London's very own 'consulting detective' Sherlock Holmes has reportedly commit suicide in response to his recently discovered manipulation of the criminal underworld.** " "... **as of yet, there have been no contradictions made to any of the allegations against Holmes' invention of James Moriarty. The detective's blogger and close friend, John H. Watson, has briefly expressed his belief that Holmes' and his participation in the resolution of crime was genuine to the very core, but has declined any and all interviews otherwise**." " **Sherlock Holmes: The Legacy and the Lie.** "

"Jesus." John whispered, willing away the tightening of his throat and the burning behind his eyes at the memory of such a time. He ran his thumb over the picture of Sherlock's face and winced against the archaic hurt that he had so acutely felt for Sherlock the day the article was produced.

For the rest of his life, he would never be able to dissolve the memory: Sherlock being rolled out of a pool of his own blood, eyes blue and frosty and terribly, nauseatingly lifeless. Some nights it ran on a constant loop, other times it incorporated itself into the nightmares. He remembered Sherlock on top of Bart's, face blurred and too far away to read anything outside the tone of his speaking voice on the phone; which had been so broken and dejected that John doubted whether he wanted to see Sherlock clearly or not. He remembered standing at the grave, trying to understand and make sense of the idea that he would never see Sherlock again. It had utterly hollowed him to the core, and even on the best days John never remembered fully accepting the fact that Sherlock had unceremoniously slipped through his fingers. Forever and ever, amen.

But despite all of these pains, the most unbearable one was found in this disgusting headline. John had hurt for himself, sure; but he had hurt for Sherlock so much more when he considered how quickly London vilified him into the shape of a pathetic con. A man who had thwarted so many potential disasters, deaths and heartaches, whether heroically or not, was painted as the punchline of a joke in _one_ day's worth of time. That was all it took -- one day to entirely to decimate Sherlock's reputation and doubt every fiber of his character without prior consideration to a fuck-all of _anything_. 

 It made John damn-near incandescent. _  
_

"How do you make them stop?" Came a voice, and John's head immediately snapped upwards to find Sherlock standing in a narcotic-induced fog in his doorway. His hair was crushed on one side and a few wrinkles from his pillow case were pressed into his cheek, the sight hurtling John back into the reality of the present.

" _Another one_." John thought, brows furrowing at the man."You can write them down. I used to, anyway. Write them in a journal, that is."

"Ineffective." Came the terse response.

"You can talk about them."

"Out of the question." Sherlock snapped, and this time John stood slowly from his crouch and observed the man in front of him in startling clarity. He looked miserable; truly and incomprehensibly miserable, and John knew with the glance of the article in his hand that he would never be able to stop hurting for the man who didn't know he had any reason to be hurt for.

A long, quaking moment passed before John attempted a small, sad smile.

"You wake up." He offered futilely, and Sherlock glanced at the open drawers to the left and thinned his mouth into a tight line. John watched in quickly developing anxiety, however, as the detective's eyes suddenly welled wet, red and bright.

"I--" He tried, swallowing heavily, and John could only observe him in despondent silence as Sherlock huffed out a short, bitter laugh and held his gaze to the wall. "Sometimes, I don't want to." He laughed, tears pooling, and there was nothing he could have said that would have completely devastated John any more than that.

"Sherlock, don't-" He began, dropping the newspaper to the floor and stepping over a box. "Don't, just -come here, okay? Just. _Sherlock_." He almost begged, already reaching for him. He grabbed him by the forearms and steadied him, tethered him in place, to the ground, to himself as the taller man closed his eyes and frowned.

"You scared the hell out of me." Sherlock whispered angrily, and John winced as thick, silent trails of water spilled under Sherlock's lashes and down his cheeks, and it was all so obvious now: the irrational anger, the extreme solution, the silent treatment and the bitter, hard-cored grudge that Sherlock had never been prone to holding. John's dangerous brush with death hadn't rendered Sherlock out-smarted or affronted.

It had scared him senseless.

"I know. I'm. That was...not good." He offered, not giving a flying fuck that it manifested itself as an apology. "None of it was good. Here, just-

And with that, John maneuvered him to the bed and sat him on the edge of it. Turning around, he rifled through a box under his bed and calmly handed Sherlock a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He took it wordlessly. John sat next to him in silence as Sherlock lit the cigarette and exhaled an ungodly drag of smoke into the room.

John braced his hands on his knees and waited for Sherlock to re-assemble himself. A few more tears fell unceremoniously down his face and around the cigarette before he collected himself against an unprecedented lapse of control.

"Unpack it all." Came the deep baritone, and John sent him a despondent glance.

"It might actually be for the best, yeah? For a little while, anyway." He offered gently, but Sherlock merely repeated himself with more severity.

"Unpack it all, John."

"Sherlock." He then sighed, eyes falling to the opposite wall. "I think it's probably for the best if-"

"You've been recalcitrant with everything I've ever asked of you, but you're going to wordlessly acquiesce to the one and only demand I didn't mean. It's _disgusting._ " Came the frustrated interruption, and John glanced upwards to find Sherlock pinning him with a restrained glare that likely barricaded a hurricane of desired protest.

After a few minutes, John finally spoke up.

"I wasn't actually going to leave. It was to see-"

"If I would feel the reality of the situation if you actually simulated it?" He asked disgustedly as he dismissed the question with a waive of his hand. "Unpack it all, John, and don't leave. Even when I tell you to, because it will happen again, and I won't forgive you if you ever concede to it. Unpack it all, John, and stop trying to _leave_." Sherlock's voice cracked on the end, and John could have folded in on himself.

"Come here. _Come here_." He demanded, cradling the side of Sherlock's head with a hand and maneuvering him into a fast kiss. Sherlock went entirely willingly, lips moving fluidly against his own.

After a few seconds of a soft slide of lips, Sherlock twisted his torso and nipped lightly at John's bottom lip; a silent plea to be let in. John opened his mouth to the heat of Sherlock's own as a tongue slipped in and utterly plundered through his mouth, searching and feeling and reassuring itself. The cigarette fell to the floor as Sherlock placed both hands on John's neck and dove deeper and deeper into John's mouth with an escalating urgency.

"I missed you." John mumbled into his mouth, and Sherlock's hands dropped from his neck to his waist.

" _Don't._ " He spoke brokenly, and John wasn't entirely sure what he was meant not to do, but there was a real possibility that Sherlock didn't either. "Come down." Sherlock ordered, and John allowed himself to be pulled as Sherlock lay down and maneuvered John over top of him. His hands ran up and down the length of his back, and the kissing was fast transitioning into breathy touches of licks and bites. John tangled his fingers in the curls and pulled, prompting a low moan from the man beneath him.

Sherlock's hands fisted into the back of John's shirt before unclenching and snaking their way underneath in the attempt to pull it off. Sitting up, John pulled it over his head as Sherlock sat and removed his own shirt. Falling back down, John resumed his assault on Sherlock's mouth as they both became painfully hard against each other. John grunted and the kissing suddenly waned noncommittal as Sherlock fluidly rocked his hips up against John's own.

"There are other ways, if you don't-" John tried pitifully, but before he could finish, Sherlock rolled them over and positioned himself on top of John. He immediately cradled John's head in his hands and consumed every word that dared to escape.

"Shut up." Sherlock whispered breathlessly, and John broke off of Sherlock's mouth when he felt long, deft fingers fumbling with the zip of his trousers. "Look at me." Sherlock ordered, diving back into John's mouth to monopolize his attention. John moaned into Sherlock's mouth as the hand popped the button of his trousers and squeezed his cock through the fabric of his pants. John lurched upwards as Sherlock sat back and observed him in surprise.

"Sherlock, this isn't...we don't. We-" But before he could continue, he felt Sherlock run his hand slowly up the side of his arm and stop at the new scar on his shoulder. Carefully, Sherlock traced a thumb over the scar, brows furrowing as his thumb ran lightly over the still-mottled bruising and around to his back where it grazed the exit wound.

And then John saw _that_ look.

"Not your fault." He spoke, and Sherlock immediately snapped out of his daze to glance back at John."It wasn't your fault, Sherlock. No matter how many bizarre angles you decide to take it from, it will never be your fault, so don't even bother with the hypotheticals."

And then Sherlock's countenance seemed to entirely crumble as he bowed forward and lapped languidly through John's mouth for a few wounded minutes, only stopping to place his forehead heavily against John's.

"It was your fault."

"Yeah." John affirmed.

"It was your fault, John." He whispered, voice cracking on the end.

"Yes."

"It was _your_ fault." He whispered desperately, voice gravelled against John's mouth. "Show me you're alive."

Bringing his hands to cradle Sherlock's face, John crushed his mouth to Sherlock's as he carted his hands through the damp curls. Lying back, Sherlock clambered over top him and ground down against him; teeth nipping an angry purple welt into the underside of his jaw.

The feeling is gorgeous, unprecedented and so fucking unreal, and John is dangerously close to coming as it is without Sherlock's slow, heavy undulations.

"What you did." Sherlock mumbled, mouth smacking off of John's. "What you and Mycroft did. Don't _ever_ -"

"Same goes for you."

"No." Sherlock snapped, sitting up and pulling John with him. "No. There are certain things I'm not willing to do anymore, and enduring another loss is one of them. Don't ever leave, metaphorically or otherwise. I can't keep-" His sentence is cut off as John cradles the back of his head and pulls him down, down, down.


	11. How Little You Know And How Little You Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated "E" for "Explicit" -- AKA SEXY TIMES

Gasping, John arched as Sherlock's fingers brushed against the metal of his zip before the palm of his hand tucked itself under the opening of his flies. Absently, he bucked into his palm, and Sherlock paused in his exploration to peer down at John with a heady, jungle-cat glint in his eyes.

"You alright?" John asked breathlessly, but before a response could be formed, Sherlock rolled off of him and stepped off of the bed. "What's wrong?" John asked again, this time sitting up on his elbows while willing away the painful throbbing of his cock as it brushed against the metal tabs of his zip.

Sherlock's hair was a Study in Chaos, and his lips were glossy and swollen with a red-wine shine as he retreated from the bed and leaned back against the wall to observe John with a completely ambiguous scrutiny.

And then John considered the true weight of the situation, and he pulled himself to the edge of the bed and crossed his arms. Sherlock's observation adopted subtle hints of defensiveness, and he cocked his head warily, advising John to stand down.

"You're unsure of this." John offered, and Sherlock's brows furrowed in offense as his features twisted into a frown.

"Sex doesn't frighten me."

"You're inexperienced."

"Shut up." He snapped, affronted. "Contrary to Mycroft's completely _erroneous_ observations, I'm not actually inexperienced with this kind of thing."

"So you're...you're what, then? Overwhelmed?" John tried, holding a hand out as if waiting for Sherlock to place the answer in his hand.

"No. Yes, but that's not--" He began, aborting the sentence to try it from a different angle of approach. "Many things are overwhelming. I've learned to manage."

"Right. Well, something's wrong, Sherlock, so don't--" John tried, rubbing a hand tiredly over his mouth and holding it there as he observed the man in front of him. "Whatever it is, don't try to shrink it into something easier for you to comprehend. This is bothering you."

Sherlock held his gaze for a long minute.

"There are certain things that I--" His mouth thinned, and he rolled his eyes in complete frustration with John's inability to deduce what he meant."Things that --you know what I am, John. You know what I'm capable of. It would be...intolerable, to consider the. The alternative. I don't -- you already know what I --what I do."

"Right." John remarked as he cleared his throat. "Now let's try that again, but in English this time, yeah?" He said, and as he stood from the bed, Sherlock's eyes immediately flicked down to the pants standing stark and red through the lazy, open flaps of his jeans. "There are things I won't always approve of, but I can't know them unless you say them. And I won't fault you for saying them. I always want you to say them."

"If we do this--" He began, eyes snapping up from the open zip to hold John's attention firmly. He swallowed heavily. "If we do this, I won't be able to delete it."

"Is...that all?" John asked after a few hesitant seconds, clearly having carbonized himself for a more staggering objection."That's. That's good, then. Neither will I. In fact, I'm very seriously hoping it will be there for me to recall at the most inappropriate and inconvenient times of the day."

"John." Sherlock then snapped, and John could tell by the humourless, steel-wool glare in his eyes that there was nothing funny in any of this. "There are only a scarce few things in my life that I haven't been able to delete, and the feeling of a cocaine high is one of them. Because of it, I am always wanting and always craving, and I've been put in the _intolerable_ position of having to diminish that want every hour of every day. Doing this with you would be --I suspect it would be nothing less than a cocaine high, and I am not willing to subject myself to any more self-denial on your behalf."

"You're worried you can't--" John then began, confused, but Sherlock immediately stood to his full height as John sauntered over to him with a frown evident in his features. "Jesus, Sherlock. This isn't cocaine. For Christ's sake, it's not something you can _overdose_ on." He said, and Sherlock spat out a bitter laugh in direct protest to the validity of that statement.

"How _little_ you know." Sherlock laughed bitterly. "And how little you care."

"I care too much." John replied defensively. "I don't have to know the rest if I know that."

And then John lifted his hand to turn Sherlock's face towards him, but Sherlock snatched his wrist mid-air and leveled him with an arctic scrutiny.

"If this is intended as a one-time thing, don't let me have it." Sherlock muttered angrily. "I will not labour under any more self-denial for your sake. If you suspect that this is destined to become some kind of 'forbidden memory' for you to recall only on the nights when you touch yourself, then don't you _dare_ let me have it, John. I won't be reprimanded for wanting again. I won't stand for it."

"God, Sherlock!" John laughed, huffing out a suppressed breath of air and grinning with released frustration and disbelief. "If I wanted you any more than I do now, there wouldn't be a single surface in this flat that I wouldn't have already bent you over. Do you think I could _ever_ do this once and not want to--"

His reply went unfinished, however, as Sherlock lunged forward, grasped both sides of John's head into his hands, and bit John's mouth.

Sherlock's tongue plundered through his, sliding and twisting and sucking every available nano-ounce of breath from his throat, and the intention in this kiss wasn't made of gentle convictions or any kind of petal-soft affection, but rather an attempt to be in and around and through and with and on John in every way possible; never did Sherlock intend to be in John's peripheral by any stretch of the imagination. If it were possible, and even if it weren't, Sherlock would make damn sure that he would be every preposition to John at one time.

 _With_ John, _on_ John, _for_ John, _at_ John, _in_ John, _against_ John, _instead_ of John, _near_ John, _between_ John, _to_ John, _off_ John, _from_ John, _under_ John, _down_ John, _below_ John, _through_ John.

 **With** him in life and undoubtedly in death, **For** John. Made for John, customized for John, personalized for John's every need. **At** John in an instant, when things go horrifically wrong and when things go horrifically right. **Against** John in morality, against John in household affairs, against John in rules, against John in beliefs, and against John and the bed. His life **instead of** John's, his pain instead of John's; and if it ever called for it, he the ransom instead of John. **Near** John in anger, near John in apathy, near John in arousal, near John in petulance, near John in every way that mattered, when it mattered, and even when it didn't. **Between** John and the danger and John and the bed; and there is absolutely  _no_ difference between the two. **To** John, for the times Sherlock needed protection or sustenance or entertainment or recovery or this, this, this. **Off** of John, his theories and deductions; off of John to rebound back to his craft, to his ability to mold those rebounds into shapes of comprehension and sense that bend light in John's eyes. **From** John, any and all of the empathy for human error and grief Sherlock had come to know. **Under** John, like this. Exactly like this. Under John's watch, under his protection, under his hold. **Down** John, sliding down to bury his face in his jumpers with that hand twisting his curls into spirals and his heart into small, quivering vulnerabilities. **Below** John, physically and in morality. Emotionally and in character.

 **Through** John since the first day, the very first day --shooting through him like an arrow, and it's unbelievable to leave John bleeding this way. It's heady and overwhelming and good, good, good.

Sherlock's hands were locked and tight on both sides of his head, and John hissed minutely when Sherlock nipped at his bottom lip with a few sharp teeth, inciting a staggering pleasure-pain of beaded blood.

'"My room." Sherlock croaked, licking the blood away as John cursed under his breath.

"Why?" He asked on an exhale, and Sherlock was already crowding him out the door.

"Because I--" Sherlock began, though stopping to press one hard kiss into his mouth. "Before, there were times when I allowed myself to --to imagine what this might be, and it was always you, wrapped in my sheets and my cells and my sweat, and I _want_ , John."

"Clothes. Now." John mumbled drunkenly, dazed, as he fumbled blindly for the hem of Sherlock's shirt. He momentarily broke off as Sherlock lifted his arms, allowing John to slide the shirt off of the alabaster, statuesque body. No sooner did the shirt hit the floor and the curls flop back over his eyes before Sherlock dove back in to tear through his mouth, leaving one terribly crude kiss against his lips before breaking off to grapple with John's jumper in return.

And at some point in the following fifteen seconds, John found himself pushing Sherlock's door open with his hand, pointedly ignoring the absence of the lock he destroyed. Sherlock slammed it shut and advanced on him despite the door's swinging back open.

If anyone walked in --anyone at all, they would never be able to hide this damage. And for once, John just didn't fucking _care_ if the world and all of it's media knew he was in the process of shagging Sherlock Holmes. He encouraged it, actually, and the mere thought of London knowing that he had been the one to break Sherlock into rubble left him nearly breathless.

"Arms." Sherlock mumbled quickly, lids half-veiling his downturned eyes, and John lifted his arms and let the cold draft of air graze his torso as Sherlock tossed the jumper to the floor in haste and fell immediately into the crook of John's neck with an intent to kill.

"Sherlock." He groaned, head lolling back as Sherlock massaged both thumbs into his nipples while sucking a painful, wet brand under his jaw, and John had never known that someone so elegant and classic could have the capacity to fall so utterly feral. He loved it.

"You taste like smoke." John whispered, and Sherlock made a noncommittal grunt in response. "It's fucking gorgeous."

And then the backs of John's knees pressed against the edge of the bed, and there was no question of where and what Sherlock wanted to do next as John's previous statement triggered something hazardous and lovely in Sherlock's aggression. John scooted back onto the bed, never unhinging his mouth from Sherlock's as the taller man clambered on top of him with one knee between his legs and one on the outside.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's back and pulled him down, flush against his chest as their skin slid hot and wet against each other.

In between small scraps of vision, John managed to glance Sherlock's heavy erection through the pyjama pants, and feeling somewhat sympathetic, he bent one of his knees and caressed it against Sherlock's cock. His eyes flicked back to Sherlock as he groaned, low and heavy with the touch, and John swore he could come then and there as Sherlock's kissing waned sloppy in order to thrust lazily against John's knee.

"Are you--" John asked as Sherlock's head bowed forward to concentrate on his thrusts against John's leg. "Jesus, are you _humping_ me?"

Sherlock hissed in frustration, shoved John's knee back down, and cupped four fingers under the hem of John's trousers. "Up."

Arching upward, John watched dizzily as Sherlock slid his trousers down his legs and over his ankles before tearing them off and tossing them to the floor. Sherlock stood, fiddling with the string of his own pyjama pants before shoving them down and stepping out of them. John was lying, hard and exposed and utterly leveled at the sight of Sherlock climbing back onto him with nothing more than a pair of jet-black boxer-briefs.

With the removal of most of their clothes, the touch amplified itself into overwhelming waves of sensory input, and this time John was painfully happy for the slow grind of Sherlock's hips down into his own. Feeling liberated, John lifted as Sherlock descended, and the feeling of their cocks rubbing slow and hard against each other was terrifying in it's pleasure.

"Why haven't we--" John muttered breathlessly as he arched up into Sherlock. "God, Sherlock, why the hell haven't we done this b--"

"I don't know. _I don't know._ " He whispered almost desperately, and John winced and slammed back into the bed as the pre-cum permeated a small patch of wetness into his pants. Dazed, John reached down between them and squeezed Sherlock's cock through the fabric, earning him an audible growl and an erratic buck of Sherlock's hips into his hand.

Sherlock visibly crumbled.

"I will never --you became everything, and sometimes I _hate_ you for it." He laughed bitterly.

And like the breaking of a dam, John promptly lost the last shred of his composure.

Sliding his arm around Sherlock's back, he twisted and rolled so that Sherlock lay underneath him looking untethered, lost in sensation, and entirely out of his depth.

"Do you trust me?" John asked, and Sherlock's head hit the pillow with a dull thud as John braced his knees on both sides of his torso and leaned forward, pressing his forehead into Sherlock's who lay looking more scared and dangerous than he had ever known.

"In every way." Sherlock spoke, eyes fluttering shut into a frown. "And most of all."

Composure cracking in half, John slowly brought his lips to Sherlock and simply held them there, both content to simply breathe each others breath for a long minute.

"You've done this with a man before." John spoke, half asking and half stating.

"Yes." Sherlock whispered, voice a raspy croak. "Fifteen years ago, and never for pleasure. I needed money for the cocaine, and it was --it was always the easiest route. Impersonal, and I was high most of the time."

"Are you okay with this. If we--" John tried, ignoring the rolling sickness of Sherlock's confession. "If we take it that far, will it be too much?" He asked, and Sherlock huffed out a breathless laugh.

"It will never be enough, John." He laughed miserably. "I could very well _absorb_ you and it would never have the capacity to be enough." He muttered in frustration, and John kissed him once. Twice. Three times, slow and chaste.

"What do you want?" John asked a little dubiously, and Sherlock's chalcedony irises thinned into rings with the explosion of his pupils.

"I want to fuck you." He said, and those five words tore a straight line of arousal to John's cock.

"Alright." He whispered. "Do you have any--"

"Top drawer." Sherlock gestured.

Leaning over, John grappled for the handle and scrabbled for the small bottle of lube nestled in the back. Sherlock watched, awe-struck, as John stood off of the bed and removed his pants, leaving his cock to spring hard and heavy against his belly.

"I'm going to do something." John spoke as he climbed back over Sherlock. "And you're going to let me, knowing that you can say no at any point."

Sherlock nodded his head wordlessly, and John took it as a sign of approval before sliding down Sherlock's body. He settled between the detective's legs, and Sherlock watched, mezmorized, as John tucked his thumbs into the sides of Sherlock's boxer-briefs. Without being told, Sherlock lifted his hips, and John pulled the pants down and off of his legs. He watched, gluttonous, as Sherlock's cock bobbed hard and aching against his pale abdomen. Soft, black tufts of curls ran from the bottom of Sherlock's navel down between his legs, and John's mouth watered at the sheer obscenity of it all.

Popping the cap of the lube open, John sent Sherlock one last reassuring look before squirting a generous amount of the liquid into his hand. Sliding forward, he grasped Sherlock's cock with the lubed hand and stroked once.

Sherlock keened forward, throwing one arm over his eyes. John stroked again, careful to apply a generous coating of the lube, and Sherlock groaned into the crook of his arm.

"If you keep doing that, I can tell you this won't last very long." Sherlock muttered.

"All right." He said, sitting back on his heels. "Here." He said, and Sherlock lifted the arm off of his face to peer at John incredulously as John extended the bottle of lube to him.

"You want me to--"

"You said you've done it before." John commented factually, though with a devious glint in his eye. Smirking, he bent forward to place his mouth next to Sherlock's ear. "Show me how much you need this." He whispered, which he would later admit to being an ill-advised idea as Sherlock lunged forward and pushed John back into the bed.

"Relax." Sherlock spoke, squeezing an ungodly amount of the liquid into his hand. "Spread your...spread your legs." He somewhat choked, suddenly thrown by the staggering level of arousal found in those three words, and John almost laughed at the sheer fucking bullshit of "married to my work."

Splaying his knees apart, Sherlock's eyes scanned indulgently up and down John's body as he reached forward and squeezed John's cock, earning him a pained moan from the shorter man. He ran his hand up and down the length of John's cock while hungrily consuming every noise and movement John made beneath him.

"Sherlock--" He hissed with a particular twist of Sherlock's wrist. "Please, just--"

"Just what?" Sherlock demanded, strokes revving into a higher speed.

"Don't." John warned.

"Just _what_ , John?" Sherlock reiterated, and John caught the feral glint in this eye --it was almost soul-shattering for Sherlock, to be able to hear John say it. He asked the question as if his life would never be able to proceed from that point forward unless John answered.

"Damnit!" John snapped, bucking into Sherlock's palm. "Just fuck me, you _prat_."

Eyes snapping open, John groaned as one cold, wet finger lodged itself into his hole.

"You have to relax." Sherlock spoke. "It won't work otherwise."

With one exhale, John closed his eyes and concentrated on the disastrous pleasure of Sherlock breaching him this way. Only wincing slightly, John moaned in half pain and half pleasure as another finger nestled next to the other. He lay there for a minute, not daring to open his eyes and catch Sherlock in the midst of this.

"Can you take a third?" Sherlock asked, low and aroused, and John found that it was one of the sexiest things he had ever known to leave Sherlock's lips.

"Yeah." He spoke, shifting his hips to try and accomadate the fingers. "Yeah, just hurry."

John felt the sting of a third finger sliding against his inner walls, and the lube was wet and splotchy over his inner-thighs and belly.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, and John nodded in response as Sherlock scissored his fingers twice before carefully sliding out.

"How do you want it?" John asked. When a response never came, John glanced up to find Sherlock staring at him in wide-eyed, pupil-blown delirium at that question. "Liked that, did you?"

Sherlock responded by lying on his back and pulling John over to straddle him.

"I want you like this." Sherlock said, and John smirked.

"Like what?"

"Like this." Sherlock gestured with his head down his own body, and John feigned ignorant.

"Sorry. Don't know what you mean, mate." He grinned.

"John. Please." Sherlock spoke, and John swore it would have been begging if it hadn't come from the mouth of Sherlock Holmes. "I can't -- _I want_. Don't make me say it."

Leaning down, John placed his mouth against Sherlock's neck and licked a stripe, dirty and sexual, up until he met Sherlock's lips. He plundered inside, and Sherlock moaned audibly as John sucked his tongue into his mouth.

"Say it." John whispered deviously. "Say it, or you'll never know."

"God, John!" Sherlock shouted, almost panting. "I want you to ride me. Please, just --"

And before he could finish, John sat back, positioned Sherlock's cock against his hole, and slowly sunk down. Stars ran helter-skelter across John's vision at the pain-pleasure of Sherlock's cock stretching him full and thick. Bracing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, John bowed his head forward and allowed his body to adjust to the stretch for a long, heavy minute.

When the sting waned into a pleasant discomfort, John sat back up.

"This isn't as bad as I--" He began, but entirely aborted his sentence at the sight of Sherlock with his arm over his eyes and his chest heaving heavily enough to constitute hyperventilation. "Are you alright?"

"Move." Sherlock spoke, voice shaking and ribs expanding. "Start moving. I can't--"

Reaching down, John pulled Sherlock's arm off of his eyes and demanded his eye contact, speaking to him in the best way he could --because there were certain situations when body language spoke far more profoundly to Sherlock than the mundanity of words ever could.

One look, and John could tell Sherlock every thing he never wanted to know.

Bringing his hands to hold John's hips, Sherlock swallowed heavily and nodded once at John. Starting out slow and fluid, John rocked forward, tugging Sherlock's erection with every undulation. Sherlock's fingers tore into the skin at his hips, and John sped up just enough to barely rise and fall back onto Sherlock's hips with every movement forward.

The feeling was abstract, but John felt the white-hot intensity of the pleasure revealing itself with every slide of Sherlock's erection against his inner walls.

"Do you want it fast or slow?" John asked when the pain entirely waned.

"Fast." Sherlock somewhat croaked, and John reached up to grab the headboard of the bed with both hands.

Speeding up, he rose further off of Sherlock's cock to slam back down on to his hips. The headboard gave him enough leverage to pull himself up and off at a faster pace, and Sherlock's lips parted as John rocked himself up and off.

"Forty-four seconds." Sherlock said, hands tearing screaming lines of red into John's skin.

"That how long you plan on lasting?" John asked, huffing out a short laugh as he rocked himself into oblivion.

"Forty-four seconds." Sherlock said again, and this time he met John on the descent to thrust into him. "You were clinically dead for forty-four seconds." He panted, hips now shoving upwards with greater force.

"What?" John asked, glancing down as he steadied himself on the headboard.

"They said -- _John_." Sherlock moaned, head twisting to the side as John experimentally circled his hips when he ground back down onto Sherlock's cock. "They said your heart stopped beating for forty-four seconds. Forty-four seconds, and I--"

"We need to work on your dirty-talk." John said, rocking forward. "I'm not entirely sure what you're talking about, but we can save it for later, yeah?"

"Forty-four seconds, and I couldn't hurt him because of you." Sherlock muttered angrily, and John suddenly felt himself slow to a halt to look down at Sherlock.

"Are you talking about the sniper?" He asked incredulously, panting out laboured breaths of air.

Sherlock nodded, eyes closed.

"You...you killed him, Sherlock." John offered in total confusion. "Justice was served. You righted the wrongs, justified the means, 'saved the day.' You killed him. Dwelling on it now will only--"

"I didn't want to kill him." Sherlock snapped. "I wanted to _hurt_ him. I wanted to take his pain and amplify it beyond his threshold for coping, but I couldn't hurt him the way I intended because I kept defaulting to your _insipid_ moral convictions."

"Sherlock." He whispered, affection betraying his frustration with the poor timing.

"I kept hearing it. ' _John wouldn't want him to hurt. 'John would make his pain seem less appealing._ '" Sherlock explained, anger evident. "Do you know how _crippling_ that is? To need vindication so badly you can't _breathe_ , but have John Watson's pathetic morality ruining it for you? Forty-four seconds, John, and I couldn't dissolve your convictions in the same way that I can't dissolve you. I couldn't hurt him, and I'm angry."

"Take it out on me." John said factually, and Sherlock visibly balked at the suggestion.

"Are you brain dead?"

"I already told you --if this is what you need to keep you from going to the bad places and the bad memories, then I'll be this for you every time." John spoke firmly, brushing his lips over Sherlock's once. "Take it out on me."

"I'll hurt you." Sherlock whispered.

"Yep. You probably always will. I love you." John said, and Sherlock's face utterly crumbled as he pulled John down into a scorching kiss. Resuming his hold on the headboard, John started rocking forward as Sherlock kissed him lazily, moaning soft noises into John's mouth with every rock.

The black curls were plastered to his forehead and nape against the sweat, and his criminal mouth was soft and wet and swollen against John's own. The verdigris irises were splintered and fractured with colors so soul-shattering and unpredictable it was almost impossible. And when John took it all in --really considered the sheer enigma of the man beneath him, he couldn't help but remember where he had been on this day and time three years ago. It was an insignificant day --unimportant and mundane in every way possible, except for the fact that it was one of the 1,095 days that Sherlock Holmes was still eternally absent from him. It was another day of waking up with the expectation that life was as it had been, until he opened his eyes in bed and cried silently upon remembrance that Sherlock wasn't sulking downstairs or about to return from a crime scene, happy and charged, or shouting abuse at the telly to pass the time. It was one of the days that Sherlock was in a place John could not reach unless he walked off a roof as well, and there were days and hours and moments when he wanted it possibly more than he wanted anything else.

It was the only one of the 1,095 days of those three years that John considered burying himself alive for the first time.

"Tell me what you're thinking." Sherlock demanded with a whisper.

"You don't want to know."

"I always want to know."

"You don't want to know this."

"Impossible." He replied, grunting with every rock. "There will never be anything about you that I can't know. It's impossible."

"There was one day. Two years ago." John spoke, arching as Sherlock hit home with a starburst of unadulterated ecstasy. He bowed forward, movements becoming heavy and deep as Sherlock grasped John's ribs with a growing urgency. "One day. Nothing significant about it. Just an ordinary day, but that --was the problem. I hadn't had ordinary since I met you, and then it was...all I had. After you."

"John."

"One ordinary day, and I walked past my bedroom and saw the Browning on the bed. And I couldn't stop looking at it. I must've stood there for twenty minutes just looking at it. And I --I suddenly had the idea of --I wondered how it would feel to put the barrel in my mouth." John explained, and Sherlock ran rigid beneath him. John could never be surprised by the reaction, though, because this was one of the darker litanies that was never supposed to be uttered to another human being. Not even himself.

"You didn't, though." Sherlock spoke. "Tell me you --tell me you wouldn't have done something so utterly _moronic_ as--"

"I did." John laughed brokenly, and Sherlock stared at him in wide-eyed horror. "It was loaded, and I --well, I disabled the safety, put it in my mouth, and held my finger on the trigger for close to an hour. Long enough to talk myself into it, and then out of it."

"Were you out of your _mind_?" Sherlock asked on a whisper.

"Yes. And you can't fault me for it." He smiled, composure collapsing into sand. "I had never known a relief as strong as that. The idea that it was all coming to a head --a foreseeable end. I wasn't happy to do it, but I wasn't unhappy either. Jesus, I just wanted relief. From waking up every morning only to have you --die shortly after. Every day for three years, Sherlock, and you can't fault me for it."

" _Wrong._ " Sherlock spoke, pushing John off with a hand and sprawling to his knees. Somewhat wounded, Sherlock grasped John's head in his hands and nearly shook with anger and what John could now properly identify as fear. "I'll say this one time, John, so I suggest you listen, and listen well. I knew it would hurt you. I wasn't naive, I knew I was important to you in the same way that you were important to me. That was the entire motive behind doing what I did; but I left that day knowing more than I knew anything else that you would endure the grief and come out on the other end unscathed, because you are John Watson and you are constant and unchangeable and omnipotent and brave to the point of sheer _idiocy_. I relied on those attributes to get me through to the next day, knowing that every move I made during that miserable existence would get me closer to your consistency and loyalty. If I had endured all of that under the assumption that you would remain steadfast in your character, and then had to receive a call from Mycroft telling me that you had done something as _boring_ as shoot yourself, I would have--"

"Ended it?" John asked. "Is that how fairness works in the mind of Sherlock Holmes?"

"Damn the fairness!" Sherlock then snapped, and the room plummeted into silence. "That isn't how 'fairness' works in my mind; that's how _you and I_ work in my mind! I provide you with life and purpose and adrenaline and companionship; and in return, you provide me with a kind of consistency, protection and loyalty that I never thought I wanted, but know now that I need as much as I need oxygen. I have wanted to die since I was fourteen years old, and I've never given you any reason to believe otherwise --so don't you _dare_ establish yourself as the pinnacle of everything good and right and stable in my life and then have the _audacity_ to dissolve it all the second I'm not watching." Sherlock snarled, and John suddenly felt a powerful guilt cracking his sternum for saying anything at all as Sherlock's eyes welled again.

"I wouldn't have done it, Sherlock. I wouldn't have." He offered desperately, kissing Sherlock's face to taste the patches of salt-water on the tip of his tongue. "I was flirting, yes, but I wouldn't have done."

"If I can't rely on you, I can't rely on anything or anyone, and you've conditioned me to rely on you so heavily it's _debilitating_. So don't you fucking _dare_ be anything less than what I know you to be --which is loyal and kind and everlasting and brave and the only person on this _atrocious_ excuse for a planet whom I care about more than I care for myself. "

"I love you." John said, pulling Sherlock down on top of him. Sherlock went entirely willingly, and John was unsurprised to feel Sherlock shove back into him with a greater desperation than before. A burst of pleasure exploded as Sherlock slammed into his prostate, and John met Sherlock at every thrust with a roll of his hips. "You're petulant and ruthless and lovely and cracked to the tenth power. You're impossible, you're a fucking... _division of zero_ , a wild thing, you're the birth of a star --you're a sodding _child_ ; and at some point in your kamikaze life you accepted the idea that you would always be too bright --too concentrated not to burn the eyes of anyone who tried to look at you. So you let them turn away."

And then Sherlock pounded into John so hard the headboard slammed back against the wall, carving a crescent-shaped nick into the exterior. Sherlock's hands were tucked behind the pillows, gripping the edge of the mattress with enough white-knuckled force to slam himself into John with every thrust.

"But I'm telling you, Sherlock, I couldn't look away from you if my life damn-near depended on it. So if there are days when you need to go wholesale supernova--" He then groaned loudly, pausing as stars burst in his eyes with another brush of his prostate that shot straight to his groin. "I won't...I won't look away from you. In fact, I think you'll find me well up for it."

"I'm--" Sherlock began, slamming the headboard against the wall with enough force this time to send the Periodic Table clattering to the floor. Pulling an arm back, Sherlock stroked John hard five times, and John knew at that moment and with that touch that he was going to come hard enough to hurt. "I want to come inside you." Sherlock whispered, thrusting in time with the strokes of his hand up John's cock.

"But the real irony in all of this is that you know, you _know_ , Sherlock," John said, choking as the eighth stroke to his cock ripped an orgasm out of him with enough power to send him into a blackout. "--that you _deserve_ to be looked at."

"John." Sherlock rasped, and John was instantly coming over Sherlock's fingers with such overwhelming intensity that he clenched painfully around Sherlock's cock, prompting Sherlock to abruptly arch backwards and growl.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me." John mocked, laughing in frustration at the sheer absurdity of such a demand. "God Sherlock. They've never been anywhere else."

And then John felt the warm liquid of Sherlock's seed explode inside of him, and John closed his eyes as Sherlock lazily thrust out every aftershock and pulse of his orgasm; moaning small and soft with every undulation.

With one shuddering breath, Sherlock stopped thrusting and lay down on top of John, their bellies slick and sticky with John's cum between them. They both lay there, wordless and breathless and knowing that for the next few minutes, nothing should, could or would be said about anything.

After a few suspended minutes, however, John carded his fingers lightly through Sherlock's damp curls as Sherlock buried his face in the crook of John's shoulder and breathed.

"Let me stay inside." Sherlock whispered. "I know it hurts, but please, John, for one minute, just let me--"

"Alright." John replied, blissed out and overwhelmed with the fullness of Sherlock still buried inside of him.

After twenty minutes of silence, Sherlock finally pulled out with a shuddering breath and rolled to the side.

"Talk to Mycroft." John said. "He's the reason I'm still here. Talk to him."

"Alright." Sherlock whispered sleepily, and John glanced over to find Sherlock's eyes closed. Winding an arm over Sherlock's chest, John closed his own eyes with a few black curls pressed under his nose.

"I won't tell you I love you." Sherlock then whispered, and it was so small John barely heard it.

"You won't have to." He replied, eyes closing.


	12. I Would Have Followed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> End :)
> 
> Thank you all soooooo much for reading and reviewing and staying loyal! This was my first Sherlock fic, and the wonderful reception it's gotten is really paving the way for me to write other Sherlock stories with plots that I've always wanted to explore. 
> 
> Also, I was asked about fanart for this story, so let it be known to all of creation that I would LOVE to post any fanart in the particular chapter it is drawn from. :)
> 
> PS - Follow me on Tumblr if you so desire! http://tango-alpha-tango.tumblr.com/
> 
> Could be a lot of errors in this chapter, but I'll go back tonight and do a more thorough search. Hope you all enjoyed it!

John.” Came the voice, and John winced as the duvet was ripped off of him. The bedroom light hit him like a solar flare, and he cracked one eye open to find Sherlock in full attire; Belstaff, scarf and all.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock.” John groaned, grappling sleepily for the duvet as the detective whirred around the room under his eyelids. He fingered the duvet where it sat crumpled next to his bed and pulled a pitiful corner of it over his legs. “It is too early for this shit.”

“Considering its half past twelve, I’d say your logic falters as quickly as this argument will.” He quipped, and John only groaned in response as he buried his face deeper into his pillow. “Get up. We have things to do.”

“ _You_ have things to do. I have dreams to dream.”

“It has already come to your attention that I don’t care.” Sherlock stated, tearing the sheet off of him  
and crumpling it into a ball. He tossed it to the side along with his consideration.

“Yes. Made clear about five years ago, actually.”

“ _John_.”

“I’m…in pain.” He spoke, cringing as he sat up and massaged a hand into his lower back. “If you don’t already know why, I’m not going to explain it to you.”

“It’s because I had sex with you last night.”

“Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat, eyes rising in whelm as he ruffled his own hair. “Glad I was sitting down for that.”

“Rough sex, actually.” Sherlock considered, head cocking to the side. “Perhaps you do need some time to recuperate from our activi—“

“No. No, it’s fine. I’m up.” He stood, stretching gloriously with the duvet around his ankles while ignoring the twinge of pain in his lower back. “What do you have to do today that I need to be present for? I’m thinking a shit ton of nothing, in all honest—“

He was cut off as Sherlock bowed forward and kissed him once on the mouth.

“That.” Sherlock huffed, smile turning catty and licentious. “Requires your participation.”

“Not if you use a picture.” John chided in response. “And your imagination.”

Sherlock cringed.

“Don’t be vulgar, John.”

“ _But do_ ,’ screamed Sherlock’s body language in every way possible.” John replied with a smirk, and Sherlock’s gaze flickered over him momentarily before he leaned in for a second wild kiss. Sherlock’s thumbs pressed into the soft skin under his eyes as John was maneuvered backward, caught in the hi-definition presence of Sherlock’s invasion.

John was sat on the bed, mouth still hinged to Sherlock’s as the taller man placed a knee between his on the bed and cradled his head between his hands. Finally lying back, Sherlock placed kiss after kiss on his mouth while subconsciously clutching at the few wild tufts of John’s hair. John placed his own strong hands on Sherlock’s hips, and gasped, small and surprised, against Sherlock’s mouth when the taller man ground against him.

“Sherlock.” John spoke, though instantly regretting it when Sherlock pulled himself off and rolled to the side. “You didn’t have to stop.”

“I did.” He replied, clearing his throat and reassembling himself. “I was momentarily…overcome.”

“With lust?” John asked, grinning. “Sherlock Holmes: the heartless, powerful detective in the funny hat, momentarily overcome with—“

“You.” Sherlock interjected, and John rolled his head towards the detective who seemed to fold into a trace amount of vulnerability. He twisted a curl between his thumb and forefinger and lay staring at the ceiling, obviously in the throes of an inward conversation with himself, likely debating whether he should have said something so sentimental.

Shifting to his side, John began to softly twist the inky curls at the crown of Sherlock’s head around his fingers. Sherlock visibly deflated, closing his eyes and dropping his own hand from his head to turn his face into the pillow. A sharp and unwelcome shot of arousal tore straight to John’s cock with all of Sherlock’s soft, contented noises, but John willed them away. He willed them away, because there were certain times with Sherlock when reassurance isn’t explicitly asked for with words, but rather asked in other ways if you know how to listen to Sherlock Holmes. And when John sees him half-buried in a pillow with even breaths and even heartbeats and quaking security, it’s all John can do not to grab him by the face and scream at him. “You are allowed to _be_. You are _allowed_.”

“Now you know how I’ve felt since--” John trailed softly, smiling, and Sherlock looked at him as though he was the unhappiest he’d ever known.

“Since when.” Sherlock whispered sleepily, one eye still held to John. “Tell me these things. These things, I need to—“ He abandoned the sentence, but only because John would know –John would put it together the way he always did when Sherlock couldn’t, couldn’t say it.

“Well, ha...” John mused, swallowing heavily. “Probably since Bart’s. Since ‘ _Afghanistan or Iraq?_ ’ Since that first conversation. After that, I knew I would never be able to manage you, but Jesus, Sherlock, I didn’t _want_ to; because you were both amazing and terrifying at the same time, and you never said the two could be separated, but you _did_ say danger, and I _did_ show up --so to answer your question, I’ve been overcome since the beginning. And there are days when you…when it does hurt, but for every time you leave me feeling alone, there are at least a hundred when you leave me feeling as though I have purpose, so the bad means _nothing_ , Sherlock. It means _nothing_. You overcome me, and it’s painful. It’s you. And I love you.” He smiled to himself now, small and dubious, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “It will never get old. So don’t hold back.” John finally said, wondering if it was too much, because Sherlock seemed terribly unhappy.

“Was that the rest?” Sherlock whispered, eyebrows angled as though he were in pain.

“…Hm?” He asked, head lolling to face him.

“In the warehouse. When you were—“ He stopped himself. “You said, ‘If you never want to know the rest…’ Was that the rest?”

And then John remembered: a sickness rolling in the pit of his stomach, grasping Sherlock’s hand with bloodied fingers while on the ground and knowing that it was all either coming to a head or an end, and with Sherlock, there was never going to be a difference. He remembered the blood-flaked curls teasing his nose when Sherlock buried his face in John’s shoulder and trembled in pure hatred for what John had done, and pure terror at what he was losing.

“ _If you never know the rest, I want you to know that I am grateful for you and who you are_.”

“Yeah.” John said, smiling. “Yeah. That was the rest.”

And then Sherlock slowly rolled on top of him and kissed him with a subtle sadness John hadn't seen. His arms were circled around his back, grappling onto John as though he could fade away any second, crippled with the knowledge that he had come so _unacceptably_  close to doing so.

“I won’t tell you I love you.” Sherlock said, only this time it was said with less obstinacy and more of a warning --as if saying it would strip him of something more than comfort. “But you have to _know_ , John. You have to know that I—“

“I told you you would never have to.” John said, twisting his head to better the angle. Sherlock reached down and palmed the zip of his jeans. It bulged against the denim, straining to be free.

“I need—“

“ _God_.” John said, bucking into the touch. Sherlock broke from his mouth and made to slide down his body when John grasped him by the sleeve. “No. Together.”

Sherlock briefly looked at him before he glanced down at his own erection and grappled with the zip. It must have been approaching uncomfortable, because he immediately pulled his cock out and lined it with John’s own. John’s breathing hitched when Sherlock’s fingers twisted around both of them. Reaching down, John wrapped his own hand around Sherlock’s.

“Together.” Sherlock said, leaning forward to latch his mouth onto John’s. The first stroke was incredible, and John could tell the whole enterprise was not going to take long.

A few strokes later and Sherlock was trembling as John climaxed, spilling over his fingers with a heavy groan. The cum ran wet and warm as Sherlock stroked himself to completion shortly after, letting a choked cry escape as he ran a few lingering pumps to himself. His cum shot a long stripe straight beside John's navel and over his chest.

John stared ahead as Sherlock rolled to the side.

“They were buried two weeks ago.” John commented.

“Who.” He asked, uninterested and breathing heavily.

“Patterson Shelley and Haley Moxley.” He said, running a hand through his hair. “Lestrade told me they were never claimed by family in the States.”

“I think I’m going to visit them.” He spoke after a long moment, unsurprised when Sherlock gave a non-committal grunt in response to false reverence.

“You aren’t going to visit them. You’re going to visit their bodies.” Sherlock replied, and John couldn’t find the will to be angry because he was wholly unsurprised. Sherlock lit a cigarette and spoke again. “It’s just deterioration. They aren’t there.”

“Well, that’s certainly not the _most_ predictable attitude you’ve ever taken.”

“I never saw the point.” Sherlock replied on an exhalation of smoke. “Mummy always wanted Mycroft and me to regard the dead Holmes’ family graves as though their souls were contained there and were somehow deserving of reverence. If no one visited my grave, I’d find it hard to take offense.”

“Mycroft still visits the graves.”

“Mycroft took a similar attitude as I did, but he bent to her will the way he does with any of his perceived superiors. I haven’t visited any graves since University. And before that, I could only see them as shells and decaying protein.”

“Is that how you would’ve seen me?” John then asked, only taking liberty as far as Sherlock was willing to accept it. Sherlock then sucked in a sharp breath of air, and John immediately regretted it when a response never came. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.”

After the deflation of that conversation, John spoke first.

“You should talk to him.”

“I should probably do a lot of things.” Sherlock said, flicking the head of ash off the side of the bed.

“He didn’t want me to do it, you know.” John said, gearing up for a battle-in-the-making. “He asked me to leave it alone and let him handle it. I told him no.”

“He propositioned you in the first place.” Sherlock replied, a distinct air of bristled defense slipping in.

“Only to ask that I protect you, Sherlock. That was all he wanted from me.” John explained. “He asked me not to go, only because he knew that my death would break you. Talk to him.”

“Mm.” Sherlock replied, though this time rolling out of the bed and straightening the collar of his coat; a clear sign that he had absorbed all of the conversation he was willing to.

“Where are you going?” John asked as he sat up on his elbows.

“Out.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“I—“ He tried, aborting the sentence and looking blankly at the wall. “There’s some place I need to go, and I don’t want you there.”

A momentary stab of hurt passed through John before he acknowledged the need to respect Sherlock’s privacy. 

Whatever this was, it wasn't for John.

“Alright.” He said, standing and pulling a shirt over his head. “You'll text, yeah?”

“Yes.”

And with that, Sherlock was gone.

(Two Hours Later)

“You didn't want him to go.” Came the deep baritone, and Mycroft glanced up from his desk to find Sherlock standing in the door. It was almost strange, considering he hadn't heard the celloesque voice since the night John had been shot. That beautiful, intimidating voice had never been subjected to that level of furious screaming.

“I did not.” Mycroft confirmed factually, eyes falling back to the document he was reading. He held a pen in his hand and flipped to the next page. “Not that I especially mind, but how _did_ you get in?”

“Don’t insult me.”

“I wasn't. I was complimenting you.” Mycroft replied sharp and quick; because at this stage of the game, he truly began to wonder if this banter –the small, hurtful exchanges and burning sarcasm and apathy would ever progress beyond the pitiful dynamic that they held with each other. Sherlock was thirty-nine and he in his late forties, so time wasn’t on his side in the quest to repair whatever it was that had been broken for so, _so_ many years.

“You told him not to go.”

“It may surprise you to know that John Watson can and will do whatever it is that he wants to do. I couldn’t stop him without utilizing a police intervention, so I did the best I could do with what I had to work with, and that was providing him with a solid strategy, a competent sniper, and the very top tier of medical personnel available. I couldn’t have stopped him if I tried. And believe me, I did try.”

“You should have told me.” Sherlock said, advancing slowly, and Mycroft immediately scoffed at the very idea.

“Telling you would have set off a chain reaction of events more disastrous than what actually transpired.” Mycroft waived him off, pen flying over the paper in rising irritation. “You would have sought him out with reckless abandon, John would have followed you without question, and you both would have been bleeding on a warehouse floor without a sniper to kill Dell or any medical care to speak of. No. I shouldn't have told you, Sherlock.”

“You want my trust more than anything else, but you’ve never once done the right thing to acquire it.” Sherlock spat, venom bubling hot and tacky, but Mycroft was almost entirely immune to the intent to kill at this point. Sherlock never failed in saving the very worst of himself for Mycroft and Mycroft alone.

“Do not ask for an apology. You will not get one.” Mycroft replied sharply.

“I don’t want an apology." He hissed. "I want to be kept in the know about affairs that relate to _my_ life or death.”

“So do I!” Mycroft bellowed, and Sherlock stepped back when the usually-cool man slammed his fist against the table, rattling the light in the lamp. The pen rolled off the desk and across the floor. “But that hasn’t happened since you turned nineteen years old. People don’t always get what they want, Sherlock; and at forty-seven, I am approaching an age where that is called _life_ , and not a problem that can be fixed.”

“What do you _want_ from me, Mycroft?”

“Don’t play dumb. It won’t matter to you, and you already know anyway. Saying it will only give you the opportunity to reinforce why it won’t matter.” Mycroft said as he stood from his desk and pushed his chair in. “I truly do not know how to quantify to you how profoundly sorry I am over my part in John’s injury, but I will never apologize for keeping you alive and well to the best of my ability; the way I always have, and the way I always will. If you never know the rest, I trust you know _that_. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to—“

“What is the rest, then?” Sherlock asked, uncharacteristically sobered, and Mycroft paused in his stride to glance at Sherlock.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I want to know the rest.” Sherlock quipped, solidifying his voice this time as though he wasn't entirely sure he meant it the first time.

“No you don’t.” Mycroft laughed, though bristling as Sherlock grabbed his arm and held him in place.

“I already know what the answer might consist of, and believe me when I say I am _not_ one to receive sentiment, but considering the reason behind this entire conversation to begin with, don’t you think it would be better to redeem yourself by _not_ keeping me in the dark?”

“The ‘rest’ is that I love you more than I love anything else.” Mycroft muttered angrily, jerking out of Sherlock’s grip. “The ‘rest’ is that I care for you _that_ much, and I don’t know how to tell you because you refuse to listen. I said I worried for you constantly, I was deemed boring and sentimental. I enacted surveillance of your flat because I knew of your enemies, I was told I was being tedious and unwelcome. I offered John money to test his loyalty to you, I was told I was being invasive. I worried myself sick for years during your ruinous and _pathetic_ lifestyle of drugs, and I was politely told to piss off. I have taken liberties with my position to save you from your anarchy time and time again, and I have whole-heartedly accepted punishments for many of them because London needs you, and I can’t stand the thought of how you’d fair in prison. But in reality, the ‘rest’ is that none of these words will matter, because I have tried _everything_ , Sherlock. _Everything_. After twenty-two years of this, I can concede to the idea that I will have to care for you without your participation, because I have run out of ideas in having your cooperation. I am forty-seven years old, and I have seen enough of life to know when I am fighting a battle I can’t win. I have lost, and I will lose. _Every_ time. So if we have no intention of ever being anything better than _this_ —“ He gestured disgustedly between Sherlock and himself. “Then I will back off permanently and trust that John will continue to be for you what I never could. That is incredibly difficult for me to accept, but that is the price of caring for _you_.”

Sherlock stares, glassy-eyed and unhappy, as Mycroft pulls the door open and waits for Sherlock to leave.

“I never doubted your love for me.”

“Go home, Sherlock.” He said, and this time Sherlock turned and advanced angrily.

“No. No, you listen to me.” Sherlock demanded. “This is exactly our problem. You pull strings in the background and leave me out of any and all information as it relates to me. My issues with you are not because I don’t care for you, but because I don’t know how to trust you when every action you have ever taken for me has been done with the secrecy of a thief in the night. It’s that kind of dishonesty that almost killed John. How can I trust you knowing that you don’t trust me?”

“The same way I can care for you knowing that you don’t care for me.” Mycroft replied, and Sherlock visibly stilled. "Caring is _not_ an advantage, especially when it is not reciprocated.” He finished, opening the door and looking to the ground, a clear point that he was done trifling with Sherlock in this manner. Sherlock stepped forward and made to leave before cocking his head to the right.

“I do care for you.”

“Sherlock.” He groaned, this time pinching the bridge of his nose and wincing. “Please. This is enough for one night—“

“I _do_ care for you, Mycroft --enough that I couldn’t find it in myself to hurt you even when I suspected you of telling John to do what he did.” Sherlock explained as he dropped his hand from the door. “If you know what he means to me, then you will understand why you can _never_ doubt that I do care for you.”

For a moment, all was still

“Alright, Sherlock.” Mycrof replied softly. Sherlock stepped out of the room, and Mycroft closed the door.

(Three Hours Later)

“Jesus.” John said as he ran his hand over the shaved edge of Patterson’s grave. Stepping back, he read their epitaphs and willed the sickness into submission.

“1st Corinthians 13: 4-7” Was all that was printed on both of the heart-breakingly empty headstones.

Crouching forward, John absently felt the cold marble and remembered a specific three years of his life that was filled with an almost identical situation. Hard stone and soft grass and sickness and “SHERLOCK HOLMES” printed in gothic letters without a mention of 1st Corinthians, because Sherlock had never known that its contents mattered and existed for himself.

And when the wind blew a soft breeze across the graveyard and the trees shivered with sound the same way they had for three years, John felt his eyes welling hot and red when he considered how impossibly bad he wanted a different outcome for Patterson Shelley and Haley Moxley. How many people died without knowledge that someone loved them? Millions. How many people died without knowledge that someone loved them, and then came back to give them a chance to say it?

One.

Standing, John placed a hand over his mouth and willed the tears into a believable submission as he considered the type of people they must have been.

“They’re not there.” Came a deep voice, and John turned to the side to see Sherlock approaching. “And neither am I.” The voice said softly.

“Déjà vu.” John then grinned, finally willing the tears away. As Sherlock stepped next to him, John heard a distinct jingling sound with his movement. After a few moments of quiet consideration for their graves, John spoke up:

“You’ll have to give it back, you know.”

“Hm." He mused as he ran a gloved hand over the headstone. "I don't really want to."

“I know.” John replied. After a few minutes, Sherlock pulled the locket out of his coat and twiddled it between his fingers for a few considering seconds. Falling to a crouch, he then spread the necklace and hung it on the corner of Haley Moxley’s grave where it bobbed lightly with the wind.

“Come on, you. It’s getting cold.” John said as he squeezed the back of Sherlock’s neck and made to leave.

“I wouldn’t have visited your grave.” Sherlock abruptly replied, and John stopped and turned around, ignoring the small arrow of pain that came with the statement.

“Well, I didn’t expect an answer as…clear as that, but it’s all fine.” He explained. “I know how you feel about it all.”

“I wouldn’t have visited. I would have followed you.”

“That’s—“ John stopped and cleared his throat. “That’s really not good.”

But before he could continue, Sherlock turned to face him with a revving intensity.

“What I said before, John, I meant it. I was going to die.”

“I know. That’s why you terrify me.” Came the reply, and both fell into a stand-still as Sherlock turned back to the grave. “I’ll wait in the car.”

Before he could progress, however, he was stopped by the soft tug of Sherlock’s thumb and forefinger on his sleeve, preventing him from moving forward.

“You don’t have to promise me the rest of your life.” Sherlock began, vulnerability chiseling at the bravado. “But will you promise me the rest of mine?”

“I can’t promise that, Sherlock. No one can.” He said with a genuine smile, gesturing at the graves of Shelley and Moxley for proof.

“Then you need to know that if something should ever happen, I really don’t intend to stay.”

“And what I said before, Sherlock, I meant it. That will _never_ be fair.”

“Dammit, John.” Sherlock whispered, irritation quickly rising as he stared ahead.

“I guess we’ll just have to try our damndest to outlive the other.”

“That’s…acceptable.” Sherlock considered, malcontent but satiated.

“If it’s any consolation, I’m not sure I would stay either.” John remarked as the locket jingled lightly with the wind. “Not again, anyway. The first time was. That was...no. No, I wouldn’t stay.” He affirmed with himself, feeling no real moral decay in saying so.

He smiled at Sherlock, and was momentarily stilled as the detective dove in and kissed him softly: once, twice, and then a third time before he leaned his forehead against John’s and closed his eyes.

“Too bad we can’t do it all over. Be nice to start again.” John remarked in reference to the past six months. There was good humour and only a small, unassuming sadness evident in that statement. The way things had occurred up to that very moment in time left plenty of collateral damage, yes; but he never would've traded their entropy if it meant that this side of Sherlock --a side of trust and willingness to cling to John's loyalty and consistency like a lifeline in a mind made only of frailties-- would have never been _made_ to surface. "Knowing what we...what we know now."

“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asked quietly, eyes abruptly darting to John's in an almost playful gesture.

“...what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking, sometimes I don’t talk for days on end –would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other.”

And then John was laughing. Hard.

“You are a lunatic. _Raving_ mad. Insane --every fucking ounce of you. ” John said. “But no. That would not bother me. Not even a little.”

“Dinner?” Sherlock smiled -- _really_ smiled, for the first time in six months.

“Starving.”

**_End._ **


End file.
